UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


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L. 


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MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 


MULTITUDE 
AND    SOLITUDE 


BY 


JOHN     MASEFIELD 

AUTHOR    OF    "captain    MARGARET  " 


"  Nor  shall  these  souls  be  free  from  pains  and  fears. 
Till  luomen  luaft  them  onjer  in  their  tears." 


\\\ 


1  ''. 


NEW  YORK 

MITCHELL    KENNERLEY 

1911 


«  • 

.  «  ^ 


.    •  •    • 


PRINTED   BY 

WILLIAM    BRENDON   AND   SON     LTD. 

PLYMOUTH 

igii 


\ 


^ 


TO 

MY  WIFE 


175599 


I 

What  play  do  they  play  ?    Some  confounded  play  or  other. 
Let's  send  for  some  cards.     I  ne'er  saw  a  play  had  anything  in't. 

A  True  Widonv. 

ROGER  NALDRETT,  the  writer,  sat  in  his 
box  with  a  friend,  watching  the  second  act 
of  .his  tragedy.  The  first  act  had  been  re- 
ceived coldly  ;  the  cast  was  nervous,  and  the  house, 
critical  as  a  first-night  audience  always  is,  had  begun 
to  fidget.  He  watched  his  failure  without  much 
emotion.  He  had  lived  through  his  excitement  in 
the  days  before  the  production  ;  but  the  moment 
interested  him,  it  was  so  unreal.  The  play  was 
not  Uke  the  play  which  he  had  watched  so  often 
in  rehearsal.  Unless  some  speech  jarred  upon  him, 
as  failing  to  help  the  action,  he  found  that  he 
could  not  judge  of  it  in  detail.  In  the  manu- 
script, and  in  the  rehearsals,  he  had  tested  it  only 
in  detail.  Now  he  saw  it  as  a  whole,  as  some- 
thing new,  as  a  rough  and  strong  idea,  of  which  he 
could  make  nothing.  Shut  up  there  in  the  box, 
away  from  the  emotions  of  the  house,  he  felt  him- 
self removed  from  time,  the  only  person  in  the 
theatre  under  no  compulsion  to  attend.  He  sat 
far  back  in  the  box,  so  that  his  friend,  John  O'Neill, 
might  have  a  better  view  of  the  stage.  He  was 
conscious  of  the  blackness  of  John's  head  against 
the  stage  lights,  and  of  a  gleam  of  gilt  on  the 
opposite  boxes.  Sometimes  when,  at  irregular 
intervals,  he  saw  some  of  the  cast,  on  the  far  left 


MULTITUDE  AND   SOLITUDE 

of  the  stage,  he  felt  disgust  at  the  crudity  of  the 
grease  paint  smeared  on  their  faces. 

Sometimes  an  actor  hesitated  for  his  Hnes,  forgot 
a  few  words,  or  improvised  others.  He  drew  in 
his  breath  sharply,  whenever  this  happened,  it  was 
like  a  false  note  in  music  ;  but  he  knew  that  he  was 
the  only  person  there  who  felt  the  discord.  He  found 
himself  admiring  the  address  of  these  actors  ;  they 
had  nerve  ;  they  carried  on  the  play,  though  their 
memories  were  a  whirl  of  old  tags  all  jumbled 
together.  It  was  when  there  was  a  pause  in  the 
action,  through  delay  at  an  entrance,  that  the 
harrow  drove  over  his  soul ;  for  in  the  silence, 
at  the  end  of  it,  when  those  who  wanted 
to  cough  had  coughed,  there  sometimes  came 
a  single  half-hearted  clap,  more  damning  than 
a  hiss.  At  those  times  he  longed  to  be  on  the  stage 
crying  out  to  the  actors  how  much  he  admired 
them.  He  was  shut  up  in  his  box,  under  cover, 
but  they  were  facing  the  music.  They  were  playing 
to  a  cold  wall  of  shirt-fronts,  not  yet  hostile,  but 
puzzled  by  the  new  mind,  and  vexed  by  it.  They 
might  rouse  pointed  indifference  in  the  shirt- 
fronts,  they  might  rouse  fury,  they  would  certainly 
win  no  praise.  Roger  felt  pity  for  them.  He 
wished  that  the  end  would  come  swiftly,  that  he 
might  be  decently  damned  and  allowed  to  go. 

Towards  the  middle  of  the  act  the  leading  lady 
made  a  pitiful  brave  effort  to  save  the  play.  She 
played  with  her  whole  strength,  in  a  way  which 
made  his  spirit  rise  up  to  bless  her.  Her  effort  kept 
the  house  for  a  moment.  That  dim  array  of  heads 
and  shirt-fronts  became  polite,  attentive  ;    a  little 


MULTITUDE  AND  SOLITUDE 

glimmer  of  a  thrill  began  to  pass  from  the  stalls 
over  the  house,  as  the  communicable  magic  grew 
stronger.  Then  the  second  lady,  who,  as  Roger  knew, 
had  been  feverish  at  the  dress  rehearsal,  struggled 
for  a  moment  with  a  sore  throat  which  made  the 
performance  torture  to  her.  Roger  heard  her  voice 
break,  knowing  very  well  what  it  meant.  He  longed 
to  cry  out  to  comfort  her  ;  though  the  only  words 
which  came  to  his  heart  were  :  "  You  poor  little 
devil."  Then  a  man  in  the  gallery  shouted  to  her 
to  "  Speak  up,  please."  Half  a  dozen  others  took 
up  the  cry.  They  wreaked  on  the  poor  woman's 
misfortune  all  the  venom  which  they  felt  against 
the  play.  Craning  far  forward,  the  author  saw  the 
second  lady  bite  her  lip  with  chagrin  ;  but  she 
spoke  up  like  a  heroine.  After  that  the  spell  lost 
hold.  The  act  dragged  on,  people  coughed  and 
fidgeted  ;',  the  play  seemed  to  grow  in  absurd  un- 
reality, till  Roger  wondered  why  there  was  no  hissing. 
The  actors,  who  had  been  hitherto  too  slow,  began 
to  hurry.  They  rushed  through  an  instant  of 
dramatic  interest,  which,  with  a  good  audience, 
would  have  gone  solemnly.  The  climax  came  with 
a  rush,  the  act  ended,  the  last  speech  was  spoken. 
Then,  for  five,  ten,  fifteen,  twenty  fearful  seconds 
the  curtain  hesitated.  The  absurd  actors  stood 
absurdly  waiting  for  the  heavy  red  cloth  to  cloak 
them  from  the  house.  Something  had  jammed,  or 
the  flyman  had  missed  his  cue.  When  the  curtain 
fell  half  the  house  was  sniggering.  The  half-dozen 
derisive^claps  which  followed  were  intended  for  the 
flyman. 

The  author's  box  happened  to  be  the  royal  box, 

3 


MULTITUDE  AND  SOLITUDE 

with  a  sitting-room  beyond  it,  furnished  principally 
with  chairs  and  ash-trays.  When  the  lights  brigh- 
tened, Roger  walked  swiftly  into  the  sitting-room 
and  lighted  a  cigarette.  John  O'Neill  came  stum- 
bling after  him. 

"  It's  very  good.  It's  very  good,"  he  said  with 
vehemence.  "  It's  all  I  thought  it  when  you  read 
it.  The  audience  don't  know  what  to  make  of  it. 
They're  puzzled  by  the  new  mind.  It's  the  finest 
thing  that's  been  done  here  since  poor  Wentworth's 
thing."  He  paused  for  a  second,  then  looked  at 
Roger  with  a  hard,  shrewd,  medical  look.  "  I  don't 
quite  like  the  look  of  your  leading  lady.  She's 
going  to  break  down." 

"  They'll  never  stand  the  third  act,"  said  Roger. 
"  There'll  be  a  row  in  the  third  act." 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened.  Falempin,  the 
manager  of  the  theatre,  a  gross  and  cheerful  gentle- 
man, with  the  relics  of  a  boisterous  vinous  beauty  in 
his  face,  entered  with  a  mock  bow. 

Naldrett,"  he  said,  with  a  strong  French  accent, 

you  are  all  right.  Your  play  is  very  fine.  Very 
interesting.  I  go  to  lose  four  thousan'  poun'  over 
your  play.  Eh  ?  Very  good.  What  so  ?  Som' 
day  I  go  to  make  forty  thousan'  poun'  out  of  your 
play.  Eh  ?  It  is  all  in  a  day's  work.  The  peegs  " 
(he  meant  his  patrons,  the  audience)  "  will  not  stan' 

your  third  act.     It  is  too — it  is  too "    He  shook 

his  head  over  the  third  act.  "  Miss  Hanlon,  pretty 
little  Miss  Hanlon,  she  go  into  hysterics." 

Could  I  go  round  to  speak  to  her  ?"  Roger  asked. 
No  good,"  said  Falempin.     "  She  cannot  see 
anyone.     She  will  not  interrupt  her  illusion." 


MULTITUDE  AND   SOLITUDE 

"  What  happened  to  the  curtain  ?  "  O'Neill  asked. 

"  Ah,  the  curtain.  It  was  absurd.  I  go  to  see 
about  the  curtain.  We  meet  at  Philippi.  Eh  ? 
There  will  be  a  row.  But  you  are  all  right,  Naldrett. 
You  know  John  O'Neill.  Eh  ?  Mr.  O'Neill  he 
tell  you  you  are  all  right."  He  bowed  with  a 
flourish  of  gloved  hands,  and  vanished  through  the 
stage  door. 

"  John,"  said  Roger,  "  the  play's  killed.  I  don't 
mind  about  the  play  ;  but  I  want  to  know  what  it 
is  that  they  hate." 

"  They  hate  the  new  mind,"  said  Roger. 
"  They've  been  accustomed  to  folly,  persiflage, 
that  abortion  the  masculine  hero,  and  justifications 
of  their  vices.  They  like  caricatures  of  themselves. 
They  like  photographs.  They  like  illuminated  texts. 
They  decorate  their  minds  just  as  they  do  their 
homes.  You  come  to  them  out  of  the  desert,  all 
locusts  and  wild  honey,  crying  out  about  beauty. 
These  people  won't  stand  it.  They  are  the  people 
in  Frith's  Derby  Day.     Worse.     They  think  they 


aren't." 


"  I'm  sorry  about  Falempin,"  said  Roger.  "  He's 
a  good  fellow.    I  shall  lose  him  a  lot  of  money." 

"  Falempin's  a  Frenchman.  He  would  rather 
produce  a  work  of  art  than  pass  his  days,  as  he  calls 
it,  selling  '  wash  for  the  peegs.'  What  is  four 
thousand  to  a  theatre  manager  ?  A  quarter's  rent. 
And  what  is  a  quarter's  rent  to  anybody  ?  " 

"  Well,"  said  Roger,  "  it's  a  good  deal  to  me. 
"  Let's  go  round  the  house  and  hear  what  they  say." 

They  thrust  their  cigarettes  into  ash-trays,  and 
passed  through  the  stalls  to  the  foyer.     The  foyer 

S 


MULTITUDE  AND   SOLITUDE 

of  the  King's  was  large.  The  decorations  of  mirrors, 
gilt,  marble,  and  red  velvet,  gave  it  that  look  of 
the  hotel  which  art's  temples  seldom  lack  in  this 
country.  It  is  a  concession  to  the  taste  of  the 
patrons ;  you  see  it  in  theatres  and  in  picture 
galleries,  wherever  vulgarity  has  her  looking-glasses. 
There  were  many  people  gathered  there.  Half  a 
dozen  minor  critics  stood  together  comparing  notes, 
deciding,  as  outsiders  think,  what  it  would  be  safe 
to  say.  Roger  noticed  among  them  a  short,  burly 
shaggy-haired  man,  who  wore  a  turned-down  collar. 
He  did  not  know  the  man  ;  but  he  knew  at  once, 
from  his  appearance,  that  he  was  a  critic,  and  a 
person  of  no  distinction.  He  was  about  to  look 
elsewhere,  when  he  saw,  with  a  flush  of  anger,  that 
the  little  burly  man  had  paused  in  his  speech,  with 
his  cigarette  dropped  from  his  mouth,  to  watch 
them  narrowly,  in  the  covert  manner  of  the  ill- 
bred  and  malignant.  Roger  saw  him  give  a  faint 
nudge  with  his  elbow  to  the  man  nearest  to  him.  The 
man  turned  to  look  ;  three  of  the  others  turned 
to  look  ;  the  little  man's  lips  moved  in  a  muttered 
explanation.  The  group  stared.  Roger,  who  re- 
sented their  impertinence,  stared  back  so  pointedly 
that  their  eyes  fell.  O'Neill's  hands  twitched. 
Roger  became  conscious  that  this  was  one  of  O'Neill's 
feuds.  They  walked  together  past  the  group,  with 
indifferent  faces.  As  they  passed,  the  little  man, 
still  staring,  remarked,  "  One  of  that  school."  They 
heard  his  feet  move  round  so  that  he  might  stare 
after  them.     O'Neill  turned  to  Roger. 

"  Do  you  know  who  that  is  ?  " 

"  No." 


MULTITUDE  AND   SOLITUDE 

"  That's  O'Donnell,  o£  The  Box  Office.  He's  the 
man  who  did  for  poor  Wentworth's  thing.  I  called 
him  out  in  Paris.     He  wouldn't  come." 

"  Really,  John  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you're  too  young  ;  you  don't  remember. 
He  wrote  everywhere.  He  wrote  a  vile  tract  called 
Drama  and  Decency.  He  nearly  got  Wentworth 
prosecuted." 

"  I've  heard  of  that !   So  O'Donnell  wrote  that  ?" 

"  He  did." 

"  Who  are  the  others  ?  " 

"  Obscure  dailies  and  illustrateds." 

A  little  grey  man,  with  nervous  eyes,  came  up  to 
Roger,  claiming  acquaintance  on  the  strength  o£ 
one  previous  meeting.  He  began  to  talk  to  Roger 
with  the  easy  patronage  of  one  who,  though  im- 
potent in  art  himself,  and  without  a  divine  idea 
in  him,  has  the  taste  of  his  society,  its  gossip,  its 
critical  cant,  and  an  acquaintance  with  some  of 
its  minor  bards. 

"  You  mustn't  be  discouraged,"  he  said,  with 
implied  intellectual  superiority ;  "  I  hear  you  have 
quite  a  little  following.  How  do  you  like  the  acting  ? 
I  don't  like  Miss  Hanlon's  acting  myself.  Did  you 
choose  her  ?  "  As  he  spoke  his  eyes  wandered  over 
O'Neill,  who  stood  apart,  with  his  back  half  turned 
to  them.  It  was  evident  that  he  knew  O'Neill  by 
sight,  and  wished  to  be  introduced  to  him.  Roger 
remembered  how  this  man  had  called  O'Neill  a 
charlatan.  An  insult  rose  to  his  lips.  Who  was  this 
fumbling  little  City  man,  with  his  Surrey  villa  and 
collection  of  Meryon  etchings,  to  patronize,  and 
condemn,  and  to  bid  him  not  to  be  discouraged  ? 

7 


MUL7HUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

"  Yes,"  he  said  coldly.  "  I  wrote  the  play  for 
her.  She's  the  only  tragic  actress  you've  had  here 
since  Miss  Cushman." 

The  little  City  man  smiled,  apparently  by  elon- 
gating his  eyes.  He  laid  up,  for  a  future  dinner 
table,  a  condemnation  of  this  young  dramatist,  as 
too  "  opinionated,"  too  "  crude." 

"  Yes  ?  "  he  answered.  "  By  the  way — my 
daughter  is  here  ;  she  wants  so  much  to  talk  to  you 
about  the  play.     Will  you  come  ?  " 

Roger  had  met  this  daughter  once  before.  He 
saw  her  now,  an  anaemic  girl,  in  a  Liberty  dress, 
standing  with  her  nose  in  the  air,  amid  a  mob  of 
first-nighters.  She,  too,  wished  to  patronize  him 
and  to  criticize  the  oracle.  The  superiority  of  a  girl 
of  nineteen  was  more  than  he  could  stand. 

"  Thanks,"  he  said.  "  Afterwards,  perhaps.  I 
must  be  off  now  with  my  friend." 

He  gave  a  hurried  nod,  caught  O'Neill's  arm,  and 
fled.  Two  men  collided  in  his  path  and  exchanged 
criticism  with  each  other. 

"  Hullo,  old  man,"  said  one  ;  "  what  do  you 
think  of  it  ?  " 

"  I  call  it  a  German  farce." 

"  Yes ;   rather  colourless.    It  opened  well." 

Further  on,  a  tall,  pale,  fat  woman,  with  a 
flagging  jowl,  talked  loudly  to  two  lesser  women. 

"  I  call  it  simply  disgusting.  I  wonder  such  a  piece 
should  be  allowed." 

"  I  wouldn't  mind  its  being  disgusting  so  much," 
said  one  of  her  friends  ;  "  but  what  I  can't  stand 
is  that  it  is  so  uninteresting.  There's  no  meaning. 
It  doesn't  mea?i  anything.  It  has  no  criticism  of  life." 

8 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

"  They  say  he's  killing  himself  with  chloral,"  said 
the  third  woman. 

At  the  entrance  to  the  smoke-room,  they  were 
stopped  by  the  crowd.  A  lady  with  fine  eyes  fanned 
herself  vigorously  on  the  arm  of  her  escort. 

"  It's  very  interestin',"  she  said  ;  "  but,  of  course, 
it  isn't  a  play." 

"  No.  It's  not  a  play,"  said  her  friend.  After 
a  pause,  he  defined  his  critical  position.  "  Y'know, 
I  don't  believe  in  all  this  talk  about  Ibsen  and 
that.     I  like  a  play  to  be  a  play." 

The  smoke-room  was  full  of  men  with  cigarettes. 
Nearly  all  had  a  look  of  the  theatre  about  them, 
something  clean-shaven,  something  in  the  eye,  in 
the  fatness  of  the  lower  jaw,  and  in  the  general 
exaggeration  of  the  bearing.  Something  loud  and 
unreal.  The  pretty  girls  at  the  bar  were  busy,  ex- 
pending the  same  smile,  and  the  same  charm  of 
manner,  on  each  customer,  and  dismissing  him, 
when  served,  with  an  indifference  which  was 
like  erasure.  The  friends  lighted  fresh  cigarettes 
and  shared  a  bottle  of  Perrier  water.  The  pretty, 
weary-faced  waitress  looked  at  Roger  intently,  with 
interested  sympathy.  She  had  seen  the  dress- 
rehearsal,  she  was  one  of  his  admirers. 

Matches  scratched  and  spluttered  ;  soda-water 
bubbled  into  spirits  ;  the  cork  extractors  squeaked 
and  thumped,  with  a  noise  of  fizzing.  A  pale,  white- 
haired  man,  with  an  amber  cigarette-holder  nine 
inches  long,  evidently  his  only  claim  to  distinction, 
held  a  glass  at  an  angle,  dispensing  criticism. 

"  It's  all  damned  tommy-rot,"  he  said.  "  All 
this  tosh  these  young  fellers  write.    It's  what  I  call 

9 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

German  measles.  Now  we've  got  a  drama.  You 
may  say  what  you  like  about  these  Scandinavian 
people,  and  Hauptmann,  and  what's  the  name  o£ 
the  French  feller,  who  wrote  the  book  about  wasps  ? 
They're  all.  You  know  what  I  mean.  Every  one  of 
them.  Like  the  pre-Raphaelites  were ;  but  put 
them  beside  our  English  dramatists  ;  where  are 
they  ?  " 

Someone  with  an  Irish  voice  maintained  in  a  lull, 
rather  brilliantly,  that  Shakespeare  had  no  intellect, 
but  that  Coriolanus  showed  a  genuine  feeling  for 
the  stage. 

A  friend  without  definite  contradiction  offered, 
in  amendment,  that  :  "  None  of  the  Elizabethans 
were  any  good  at  all ;  Coriolanus  was  a  Latin 
exercise.     English  drama  dated  from  1893." 

A  third  put  in  a  word  for  Romeo  and  Juliet.  "  Of 
course,  in  all  his  serious  work,  Shakespeare  is  a  most 
irritating  writer.  But  in  Romeo  and  Juliet  he  is 
less  irritating  than  usual.     I  like  the  Tomb  scene." 

The  Irish  voice  replied  that  the  English  had  the 
ballad  instinct,  and  liked  those  stories  which  would 
be  tolerable  in  a  ballad ;  but  that  intellectual 
eminence  was  shown  by  form,  not  by  an  emotional 
condition.  This  led  to  the  obvious  English  retort 
that  form  was  nothing,  as  long  as  the  thought  was 
all  right ;  and  that  anyway  our  construction  was 
better  than  the  French.  The  talk  closed  in  on  the 
discussion,  shutting  it  out  with  babble ;  nothing 
more  was  heard. 

The  two  friends,  sipping  Perrier  water,  were 
sensible  of  hostility  in  the  house,  without  hearing 
definite  charges.     An   electric   bell  whirred  over- 

10 


MULTHUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

head.  Glasses  were  hurriedly  put  down  ;  cigarettes 
were  dropped  into  the  pots  of  evergreens.  The 
tide  set  back  towards  the  stalls.  As  they  paused 
to  let  a  lady  precede  them  down  a  gangway,  they 
heard  her  pass  judgment  to  a  friend. 

"  Of  course,  it  may  be  very  clever  ;  but  what  I 
mean  is  that  it's  not  amusing.    It's  not  like  a  play." 

A  clear  feminine  voice  dropped  a  final  shot  in  a 
hush.  "  Oh,  I  think  it's  tremendously  second-rate  ; 
like  all  his  books.  I  think  he  must  be  a  most  in- 
tolerable young  man.    I  know  some  friends  of  his." 

Wondering  which  friends  they  were,  Roger 
Naldrett  took  his  seat  in  his  box  an  instant  before 
the  curtain  rose. 

Four  minutes  later,  when  the  house  found  that 
the  cap  fitted,  a  line  was  hissed  loudly.  It  passed,  the 
actors  rallied.  Miss  Hanlon's  acting  gathered  in- 
tensity. As  the  emotional  crisis  of  the  act  approached, 
she  seemed  to  be  taking  hold  of  the  audience.  The 
beauty  of  the  play  even  moved  the  author  a  little. 
Then,  at  her  finest  moment,  in  a  pause,  the  prelude 
to  her  great  appeal,  a  coarse  female  voice,  without 
natural  beauty,  and  impeded  rather  than  helped, 
artificially,  by  a  segment  of  apple  newly-bitten, 
called  ironically,  "  Ow,  chyce  me,"  from  some- 
where far  above.  The  temper  of  the  house  as  a 
whole  was  probably  against  the  voice  ;  but  collec- 
tive attention  is  fickle.  There  was  a  second  of 
hesitation,  during  which,  though  the  play  went  on, 
the  audience  wondered  whether  they  should  laugh, 
following  the  titterers,  or  say  "  Sh  "  vigorously  in 
opposition  to  them.  A  big  man  in  the  stalls  decided 
them,  by  letting  his  mirth,  decently  checked  during 

II 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

the  instant,  explode,  much  as  an  expanded  bladder 
will  explode  when  smitten  with  a  blunt  instrument. 

"  Ow,  Charlie  !  "  cried  the  voice  again.  Every- 
body laughed.  The  big  man,  confirmed  in  what 
had  at  first  alarmed  him,  roared  like  a  bull.  When 
the  laughter  ended,  the  play  was  lost.  No  acting 
in  the  world  could  have  saved  it. 

For  a  moment  it  went  on  ;  but  the  wits  had  been 
encouraged  by  their  success.  A  few  mild  young 
men,  greatly  daring,  bashfully  addressed  questions  to 
the  stage  in  self-conscious  voices.  Whistles  sounded 
suddenly  in  shrill  bursts.  Somebody  hissed  in  the 
stalls.  A  line  reflecting  on  England's  foreign  policy, 
or  seeming  to  do  so,  for  there  is  nothing  topical 
in  good  literature,  raised  shouts  of  "  Yah,"  and 
"  Pro-Boer,"  phrases  still  shouted  at  advanced 
thinkers  in  moments  of  popular  pride.  At  the  most 
poignant  moment  of  the  tragedy  the  gallery  shouted 
"  Boo  "  in  sheer  anger.  The  stalls,  excited  by  the 
noise,  looked  round,  and  up,  smiling.  Songsters 
began  one  of  the  vile  songs  of  the  music-halls, 
debased  in  its  words,  its  rhythms,  and  its  tune. 
Their  feet  beat  time  to  it.  The  booing  made  a 
monotony  as  of  tom-toms ;  whistles  and  cat-calls 
sounded,  like  wildbirds  flying  across  the  darkness. 
People  got  up  blunderingly  to  leave  the  theatre, 
treading  on  other  people's  toes,  stumbling  over 
their  knees,  with  oaths  in  their  hearts,  and  apologies 
on  their  lips.  The  play  had  come  to  an  end.  The 
cast  waited  for  the  noise  to  cease.  Miss  Hanlon, 
the  sword  at  her  throat,  stood  self-possessed,  ready 
with  her  line  and  gesture,  only  waiting  for  quiet. 
Two  of  the  actors  talked  to  each  other,  looking 

12 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

straight  across  the  stage  at  the  dim  mob  before 
them.  Roger  could  see  their  Hps  move.  He  im- 
agined the  cynical  slangy  talk  passing  between  them. 
He  recognized  Miss  Hanlon's  sister  standing  in  one 
of  the  boxes  on  the  other  side. 

The  noise  grew  louder.  John  O'Neill,  leaving 
his  seat,  came  over  to  him  and  shouted  in  his  ear. 
"  You're  having  a  fine  row,"  he  shouted. 

Roger  nodded  back  to  John  in  the  darkness.  "  Yes, 
yes,"  he  said.  He  was  wondering  why  he  didn't  care 
more  deeply  at  this  wreck  of  his  work.  He  did  not 
care.  The  yelling  mob  disgusted  him  ;  but  not 
more  than  any  other  yelling  mob.  He  wished  that 
it  had  but  one  face,  so  that  he  might  spit  in  it,  and 
smite  it,  to  avenge  brave  Miss  Hanlon,  the  genius 
cried  down  by  the  rabble,  who  still  waited,  with 
the  sobs  choking  her.  Otherwise,  he  did  not  care 
two  straws.  He  believed  in  his  work.  Beauty  was 
worth  following  whatever  the  dull  ass  thought. 
He  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  box,  and  stared  down  at 
his  enemies,  "  the  peegs."  A  rowdy  in  the  stalls, 
drawing  a  bow  at  a  venture,  shouted  "  Author." 
At  that  instant  the  curtain  came  down,  and  the 
lights  went  up.  "  Author,"  the  house  shouted. 
"  Yah.  Author.  Boo."  Women  paused  in  the 
putting  on  of  their  opera-cloaks  to  level  glasses  at 
him.  He  saw  a  dozen  such.  He  saw  the  men  staring. 
He  heard  one  man,  one  soUtary  friend,  who  strove 
to  clap,  abruptly  told  to  "  chuck  it."  "  Author," 
came  the  shout.  "  Yah.  Boo.  Author.  Gow  'owm." 

He  stood  up  to  look  at  his  enemies.  One  man,  a 
critic,  was  clapping  him,  an  act  of  courage  in  such 
a  house.    The  rest  were  enjoying  the  row,  or  helping 

13 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

it,  or  hurriedly  leaving  with  timid  women.  Those 
who  jeered,  jeered  mostly  at  John  O'Neill,  who 
looked  liker  an  author  than  his  friend  (i.e.  his  hair 
was  longer). 

"  This  is  nearly  martyrdom,"  said  John.  "  Your 
work  must  be  better  than  I  thought." 

Roger  laughed.  The  people,  seeing  the  laughter, 
yelled  in  frenzy.  Falempin  came  from  behind  the 
curtain.  He  looked  at  the  house  indifferently, 
stroking  his  white  beard,  as  though  debating  over 
a  supper  menu.  He  glanced  absently  at  his  watch, 
and  tapped  in  a  bored  manner  with  his  foot.  He 
was  trying  to  decide  whether  he  should  insult  the 
"  peegs,"  and  gloriously  end  his  career  as  a  theatre 
manager.  Fear  lest  they  should  misunderstand  his 
insult,  and  perhaps  take  it  as  a  compliment,  re- 
strained him  in  the  end,  even  more  than  the  thought 
of  what  his  wife  would  say.  He  waited  for  a  lull 
in  the  uproar  to  remark  coolly  that  the  play  would 
not  go  on.  After  a  pause,  he  told  the  orchestra  to 
play  "  God  Save  the  King"  with  excessive  fervour, 
for  a  long  time  ;  which  they  did,  grinning.  A  few 
policemen  in  the  pit  and  gallery  directed  the  re- 
ligious spirit,  thus  roused,  into  peaceful  works. 
The  hooters  began  to  pass  out  of  the  theatre, 
laughing  and  yelling  ;  three  or  four  young  men, 
linking  arms,  stood  across  an  exit,  barring  the  passage 
to  women.  One  of  them,  being  struck  in  the  face, 
showed  fight,  and  was  violently  flung  forth.  The 
others,  aiding  their  leader,  fought  all  down  the 
stairs  from  the  gallery,  hindered  by  the  escaping 
crowd.  They  suffered  in  the  passage.  One  of  them, 
with  his  collar  torn  off,  scuffled  on  the  sidewalk, 

14 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

crying  out  that  he  wanted  his  "  'at."     He  wasn't 
going  without  his  "  'at." 

Meanwhile,  in  the  pit,  a  dozen  stalwarts  stood 
by  the  stalls  barrier,  waiting  to  boo  the  author  as 
he  left  his  box.  The  stalls  were  fast  emptying. 
Two  attendants,  still  carrying  programmes,  halted 
under  Roger's  box  to  say  that  it  was  a  "shyme." 
Roger,  at  the  moment,  was  writing  hurriedly  on 
a  programme  a  rough  draft  of  a  note  of  thanks, 
praise,  and  sympathy  to  Miss  Hanlon.  It  was  only 
when  he  came  to  use  his  faculties  that  he  found 
them  scattered  by  the  agitations  of  the  night.  The 
words  which  rose  up  in  his  mind  were  like  words 
used  in  dreams ;  they  seemed  to  be  meaningless. 
He  botched  together  a  crudity  after  a  long  beating 
of  his  brains ;  but  the  result,  when  written  out  on 
a  sheet  of  notepaper,  found  in  the  ante-room,  was 
feeble  enough. 

He  twisted  the  paper  swiftly  into  a  tricorne. 
"  Come  along,  John,"  he  said.  "  We'll  go  through 
the  stage  ;   I  must  leave  this  for  Miss  Hanlon." 

They  passed  through  the  ante-room  into  a 
chamber  heaped  with  properties,  and  thence,  by  a 
swift  turn,  on  to  the  stage,  where  a  few  hands  were 
shifting  the  scenery  and  talking  of  the  row.  On 
the  draughty,  zig-zag,  concrete  stairs,  leading  to 
the  dressing-rooms,  the  stage-manager  stood  talking 
to  a  minor  actor  under  a  wavering  gas-jet  enclosed 
by  a  wire  mesh. 

"  Quite  a  little  trouble,  sir,"  he  said  to  Naldrett. 
"  Too  bad." 

"  They  didn't  seem  to  like  it,  did  they  ?  Which 
is  Miss  Hanlon's  room  ?  " 

15 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

"  In  number  three,  sir  ;  but  there's  her  dresser, 
if  you've  a  note  for  her,  sir.  There's  some  ladies 
with  her." 

Outside  the  stage  door,  in  the  alley  leading  to  the 
street,  several  idlers  waited  idly  for  an  opportunity 
for  outrage.  In  the  street  itself  a  crowd  had 
gathered  at  the  theatre  entrance.  A  mob  of  vacant 
faces  stood  under  the  light,  staring  at  the  doors. 
They  stared  without  noise  and  without  intelligence, 
under  the  spell  of  that  mesmerism  which  binds  com- 
mon intellects  so  easily.  Policemen  moved  through 
the  mob,  moving  little  parts  of  it,  more  by  example 
than  by  precept.  The  starers  moved  because  others 
moved.  In  the  road  was  a  glare  of  cab  lights. 
Light  gleamed  on  harness,  on  the  satin  of  cloaks, 
on  the  hats  of  footmen. 

"  When  did  the  age  of  polish  begin  ?  "  said 
Roger. 

"  When  the  age  of  gilt  ended,"  said  John.  "  It's 
a  base  age  ;  you  can't  even  be  a  decent  corpse 
without  polish  on  your  coffin.  Here  we  are  at  the 
Masquers ;  shall  we  sup  here,  or  at  the  Petits 
Soupers  ?  " 


i6 


II 

What,  do  we  nod  ?     Sound  music,  and  let  us  startle  our  spirits  .  .  , 
Ay,  this  has  waked  us. 

The  Poetaster. 

1HE  act  of  sitting  to  table  changed  John's 
mood.  The  Hghtness  and  gaiety  passed  from 
him.  It  seemed  to  Roger  that  he  grew  visibly  very 
old  and  haggard,  as  the  merry  mood,  stimulated 
by  the  excitement  of  the  theatre,  faded  away.  At 
times,  during  supper,  John  gave  his  friend  the  im- 
pression that  the  spiritual  John  was  on  a  journey, 
or  withdrawn  into  another  world.  He  spoke  little, 
chiefly  in  monosyllables,  making  no  allusion  to  the 
play.  He  was  become  a  shell,  almost  an  unreal 
person.  He  gave  no  sign  of  possessing  that  in- 
tellectual energy  which  made  his  talk  so  attractive 
to  young  men  interested  in  the  arts.  Roger's  fancy 
suggested  that  John  was  a  kind  of  John  the  Baptist, 
a  torch-bearer,  sent  to  set  other  people  on  fire, 
but  without  real  fire  of  his  own.  He  felt  that  John 
had  lighted  an  entire  city,  by  some  obscure  heap 
of  shavings  in  a  suburb,  and  had  now  dashed  out 
his  torch,  so  that  the  night  hid  him.  He  reaHzed 
how  little  he  knew  this  man,  intimate  as  they  had 
been.  Nobody  knew  him.  Nobody  knew  what  he 
was.  There  were  some  who  held  that  John  was 
the  Wandering  Jew,  others  that  he  was  a  NihiHst,  a 
Carlist,  a  Balmacedist,  a  Jacobite,  the  heir  to  France, 
King  Arthur,  anti-Christ,  or  Parnell.  All  had  felt 
the  mystery,  but  none  had  solved  it.  Here  was 
c  17 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

this  strange,  enigmatic,  brilliant  man,  an  influence 
in  art,  in  man}^  arts,  though  he  practised  none  with 
supreme  devotion.  He  had  wandered  over  most 
of  the  world  ;  he  spoke  many  tongues  ;  he  had 
friends  in  strange  Asian  cities,  in  Western  mining 
towns,  in  rubber  camps,  in  ships,  in  senates.  No 
one  had  ever  received  a  letter  from  him.  But  his 
rooms  were  always  thronged  with  outlandish  guests 
from  all  parts  of  the  world.  Looking  at  him  across 
the  table,  Roger  felt  small  suddenly,  as  though 
John  really  were  a  spirit  now  suddenly  lapsing  back 
into  the  night,  after  a  spectral  moment  of  glowing. 
He  felt  the  man's  extraordinary  personality,  and 
his  own  terrible  pettiness  in  apprehending  so  little 
of  it.  Something  was  wrong  with  him,  something 
was  the  matter  with  the  night.  Or  had  the  whole 
unreal  evening  been  a  dream  ?  Or  were  they  all 
dead,  and  was  this  heaven  or  hell  ?  for  life  seemed 
charged  with  all  manner  of  new  realities.  He  had 
never  felt  like  this  before.  Something  was  changing 
in  his  brain.  He  was  realizing  his  own  spiritual 
advances,  in  one  of  those  rare  moments  in  which 
one  apprehends  truth.  It  occurred  to  him,  with  a 
sudden  impulse  to  violent  laughter,  that  John, 
sitting  back  in  his  chair,  mesmerized  by  the  fantasy 
of  the  smoke  from  his  cigarette,  was  also  in  a 
mood  of  spiritual  crisis,  attaining  long-desired 
peace. 

John  watched  his  cigarette  till  the  ash  fell,  when 
the  truth  seemed  fully  attained,  the  soul's  step 
upward  made  good.  He  glanced  up  at  Roger  like 
a  man  just  waking  from  a  dream,  like  a  man,  long 
puzzled,  at  last  made  certain. 

i8 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

"  What  are  your  plans  ?  "  he  asked  suddenly. 
"  You'll  go  on  writing  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  shall  go  on  writing,"  Roger  answered. 
He  was  puzzled  by  the  abruptness  and  detachment 
of  John's  manner.  "  I've  got  that  Louis  Quatorze 
play  finished.  I  shall  start  on  another  in  a  day  or 
two.  I've  a  novel  half  finished  ;  I  told  you  the 
fable,  I  think.  I've  not  done  much  since  the  re- 
hearsals began." 

"  You'll  have  a  great  success  some  day,"  said 
John,  half  to  himself.  "  You'll  be  all  that  Went- 
worth  might  have  been  had  he  lived.  You  know 
Went  worth's  work  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  Roger  said.  The  question  surprised  him. 
John  was  speakingl^to^  him_|as  though  he  were  ^a 
stranger.  They  had  discussed  Wentworth's  work 
a  score  of  times.  "  What  sort  of  man  was  he  ?  " 
he  added. 

"  A  great  genius  in  himself.  In  his  work  I  don't 
think  he  was  that,  though  of^course  he  did  wonder- 
ful things.  You  told  me  once  that  you  were  in 
love.    How  does  that  go  on  ?  " 

"  I  see  her  sometimes.  I  can't  ask  her  to  marry 
me.     My  prospects — well — I  live  by  writing." 

"  She  is  rich,  I  think  you  said  ?  She  lives  in 
Ireland  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Love  is  the  devil !  "  said  John  abruptly.  "  I'm 
going  abroad  to-morrow,  on  account  of  my  lungs. 
I  was  wondering  if  I  should  see  you  settled  before 
I  left." 

"  Good  Lord  !    You  never  told  me." 
Wentworth  used  to  say  that,  socially,  the  body 

19 


ii 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

does  not  exist.  I  thought  of  telling  you.  But  there, 
there  were  other  reasons.  Things  which  I  can't  tell 
you  about." 

"  But  where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  To  a  place  in  South  Spain.  I  can't  tell  you 
more.  Listen.  I  believe  that  I  am  on  the  verge  of 
discovering  a  great  secret.  It  is  an  amazing  thing  ; 
I've  been  working  at  it  with  Centeno,  that  young 
Spaniard  who  comes  to  my  rooms.  I  am  going  to 
Spain  so  that  I  may  work  with  him  in  a  warm 
climate." 

He  rose  from  his  seat  excited  by  the  thought  of 
the  discovery.  He  gulped  the  last  of  his  wine,  as 
though  in  a  sudden  fever  to  be  at  work.  He  flung 
on  hat  and  coat  in  the  same  feverish  preoccupation. 

Roger,  who  had  seen  him  thus  before,  knew  that 
he  was  forgotten.  His  friend  was  already  in  those 
secret  rooms  at  the  top  of  a  house  in  Queen  Square. 
His  spirit  was  there,  bowed  over  the  work  with  the 
Spanish  scholar  ;  the  earthly  part  of  him  was  a 
parcel  left  behind  in  a  restaurant  to  follow  as  it 
might.  Words  from  nowhere  floated  into  Roger's 
mind.  It  was  as  though  some  of  John's  attendant 
spirits  had  whispered  to  him  :  "  Your  friend  is 
busy  with  some  strange  doctrine  of  the  soul,"  said 
the  whisperer.  "  This  world  does  not  exist  for 
him.  You  are  nothing  to  him  ;  you  are  only  a  little 
part  of  the  eternal,  dragging  a  caddis-worm's  house 
of  greeds.    He  is  set  free." 

He  looked  up  quickly  to  see  John  deep  in  thought, 
with  a  waiter,  standing  beside  him,  offering  an  un- 
noticed bill.  Roger  paid  the  bill.  In  another 
minute  they  were  standing  in  the  glare  of  the  Circus, 


20 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

amid  tumult  and  harsh  light.  Something  in  the 
unrhythmical  riot  broke  the  dreamer's  mood.  He 
looked  at  Roger  absently,  as  though  remembering 
an  event  in  a  past  life.  A  fit  of  coughing  shook  him, 
and  left  him  trembling. 

"  Your  play  is  a  fine  thing,"  he  said  weakly,  as  he 
hailed  a  hansom.  "  You  are  all  right.  I  can't  ask 
you  to  come  round  to  my  rooms  ;  for  I  am  working 
there  with  Centeno.  I  work  there  far  into  the 
night,  and  I  am  in  rather  a  mess  with  packing  to- 
night." 

He  seemed  to  pass  into  his  reverie  again  ;  for  he 
did  not  notice  Roger's  hand.  He  was  muttering 
to  himself.  "  This  is  an  unreal  world  ;  this  is  an 
unreal  world,"  between  gulps  of  cigarette  smoke. 
A  sudden  burst  of  energy  made  him  enter  the  cab, 
Roger  gave  the  cabman  the  address,  and  closed  the 
cab's  aprons.  His  friend  lifted  a  hand  languidly  and 
sank  back  into  the  gloom.  The  last  that  Roger  saw 
of  him  was  a  white,  immobile  mask  of  a  face,  rising 
up  from  the  black  pointed  beard,  which  looked  so 
like  the  beard  of  an  Assyrian  king.  The  cab  was 
hidden  from  sight  among  a  medley  of  vehicles 
before  Roger  realized  that  his  friend  was  gone. 

It  struck  Roger  then  that  the  evening  had  brought 
him  very  near  to  romance.  He  had  seen  his  soul's 
work  shouted  down  by  the  minotaur.  Now  the 
man  whom  he  had  worshipped  was  going  away 
to  die.  More  than  the  pain  of  losing  the 
friend  was  the  sharpness  of  jealousy ;  for  why 
could  not  he,  instead  of  Centeno,  help  that  spirit 
in  the  last  transmutation,  in  the  last  glory,  when 
the  cracking   brain   cell  let  in  heaven  ?     He    felt 

21 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

himself  judged,  and  set  aside.  For  an  instant 
an  impulse  moved  him  to  creep  in  upon  the  secret, 
up  the  stairs,  through  the  corridor  piled  with  books, 
to  the  dark  room,  hung  with  green,  where  the 
work  went  forward.  He  longed  to  surprise  those 
conspirators  over  their  secret  of  the  soul,  and  to  be 
initiated  into  the  mystery,  even  at  the  sword's  point. 
He  put  this  thought  from  him  ;  but  the  shock  of 
John's  parting  brought  it  back  again.  His  spirit 
seemed  to  flounder  in  him.  He  felt  stunned  and 
staggered. 

He  crossed  Shaftesbury  Avenue  wondering  how 
life  was  to  go  on  with  no  O'Neill.  He  had  no 
thought  for  his  play's  failure  ;  this  sorrow  filled 
his  nature.  He  paused  for  an  instant  on  the  western 
sidewalk  of  the  avenue  so  that  he  might  light  a 
cigarette.  As  he  bent  over  the  flame,  someone 
struck  him  violently  between  the  shoulders.  He 
turned  swiftly,  full  of  anger,  to  confront  a  half- 
drunken  man  whose  face  had  the  peculiar  bloated 
shapelessness  of  the  London  sot.  The  man  un- 
justly claimed,  with  many  filthy  words,  that  Roger 
had  jostled  against  him,  and  that  he  was  going  to 
— well,  show  him  different.  A  little  crowd  gathered, 
expecting  a  fight.  When  the  man's  language  was 
at  its  filthiest,  a  policeman  interfered,  bidding  the 
drunkard  go  home  quietly.  The  man  asked  how 
anyone  could  go  home  quietly  with toffs  run- 
ning into  him.     The  policeman  turned  to  Roger. 

Roger  was  sickened  and  disgusted.  Charging  the 
man,  and  causing  him  to  be  imprisoned  or  fined, 
was  not  to  be  thought  of.  The  man  was  not  sober  ; 
he  had  passed  into  a  momentary  fury  of  passion, 

22 


MULTHUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

and  had  butted  blindly  like  an  enraged  bull.  The 
mistake,  and  the  foul  talk,  and  the  sudden  attentions 
of  the  crowd  at  such  a  moment  when  he  hoped 
to  be  alone,  gave  Roger  a  feeling  of  helpless  hatred 
of  himself  and  of  modern  life.  He  turned  abruptly. 
His  enemy  dogged  him  for  a  few  steps,  dropping 
filthy  names,  one  by  one,  while  some  of  the  crowd 
followed,  hoping  that  there  would  be  an  assault. 
The  pursuit  ended  with  a  snarl.  The  drunkard 
turned  diagonally  across  the  street,  so  nearly 
under  two  motor-cabs  that  the  crowd  lost  interest 
in  Roger  from  that  instant. 

Roger  remembered  that  a  few  yards  away  there 
was  a  German  restaurant,  where  some  of  his  friends 
used  to  play  dominoes  over  steins  of  lager.  He 
entered  the  restaurant,  hoping  to  meet  someone  ; 
hoping,  too,  that  the  kindly  foreign  feeling  which 
made  the  place  restful  and  delightful  might  help 
him  to  forget  his  sorrow  and  distaste  for  life.  He 
ordered  coffee  and  cognac,  and  sat  there,  sorrow- 
fully smoking,  scanning  those  who  entered,  but 
seeing  no  friend  among  them. 

As  he  smoked  the  memories  of  the  evening 
assailed  him.  He  saw  his  work  hooted  from  the 
stage,  and  John  passing  from  his  life,  and  the  sot's 
bloated  mouth  babbling  filth  at  him.  His  nerves 
were  all  shaken  to  pieces  by  the  emotional  strain 
of  the  past  fortnight.  He  was  in  a  child's  mood  ; 
the  mood  of  the  homesick  boy  at  school.  He  was 
as  dangerously  near  hysteria  as  the  drunkard.  He 
longed  to  be  over  in  Ireland,  in  the  house  of  that 
beautiful  woman  whom  he  loved,  to  be  in  the 
presence  of  calm  and  tenderness  and  noble  thought, 

23 


MULTHUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

away  from  all  these  horrors  and  desolations.  The 
thought  of  Ottalie  Fawcett  calmed  him  ;  for  he 
could  not  think  of  that  beautiful  woman  and  of 
himself  at  the  same  time.  Memories  of  her  gave 
his  mind  a  sweet,  melancholy  food.  One  memory 
especially,  of  the  beautiful  lady,  in  her  beautiful, 
early  Victorian  dress,  with  great  hat,  grey  gauntlets, 
and  old  pearl  earrings,  bending  over  a  mass  of  white 
roses  in  the  garden,  recurred  again  and  again.  To 
think  of  her  intently,  and  to  see  her  very  clearly 
in  a  mind  acutely  excited,  was  like  communion  with 
her.  Her  image  was  so  sharply  outlined  in  his  heart 
that  he  felt  an  exultation,  as  though  their  hearts 
were  flowing  into  each  other.  One  tingling  thought 
of  her  was  like  her  heart  against  his.  It  made  him 
sure  that  she  was  thinking  of  him  at  that  instant, 
perhaps  with  tenderness.  He  tried  to  imagine  her 
thoughts  of  him.  He  tried  to  imagine  himself  her, 
looking  out  under  that  great  hat,  through  those 
lively  eyes,  a  beautiful,  charming  woman,  exquisite, 
guarded,  and  infinitely  swift  of  tact.  It  ended 
with  a  passionate  longing  to  get  away  to  Ireland 
to  see  her,  cost  what  it  might.  His  heart  turned  to 
her  ;  he  would  go  to  her.  He  could  not  live  with- 
out love. 

The  play  had  ended  before  ten  o'clock.  It  was 
now  half-past  eleven.  Roger  paid  his  bill,  and 
turned  into  Shaftesbury  Avenue,  thinking  that 
within  thirty-six  hours  he  would  be  set  free.  This 
dusty  tumult  would  be  roaring  to  other  ears.  He 
would  be  by  the  waters  of  Moyle,  among  magical 
glens,  knocking  at  his  love's  door,  walking  with  her, 
hearing  her  voice,  sitting  with  her  over  the  turf 

24 


MULTHUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

fire,  in  that  old  house  on  the  hills,  looking  over 
towards  Ailsa.  That  would  be  life  enough.  It 
would  give  him  strength  to  begin  again  after  his 
failure  and  the  loss  of  his  friend.  His  mind  was 
full  of  her.  He  turned,  as  he  had  so  often  turned, 
late  at  night,  to  look  at  the  windows  of  the  little 
upper  flat  which  his  love  shared  with  her  friend 
Agatha  Carew-Ker.  They  were  seldom  in  town  to 
use  the  flat.  They  came  there  for  flying  visits 
generally  in  the  spring  and  winter,  when  passing 
through  London  to  the  Continent.  It  was  a  tiny 
flat  of  four  living-rooms,  high  up,  on  the  south  side 
of  Shaftesbury  Avenue  ;  a  strange  place  for  two 
ladies  to  have  chosen,  but  it  was  near  the  theatres 
and  shops.  As  Roger  walked  towards  it  he  recalled 
the  last  time  he  had  been  there,  seven  months 
before.  He  had  had  tea  alone  with  Ottalie,  one 
misty  October  evening.  For  nearly  half  an  hour 
they  were  alone  in  the  flat,  sitting  together  by  the 
fire  in  the  dusk,  talking  intimately,  even  tenderly  ; 
for  there  was  something  magical  in  the  twilight, 
and  the  companionship  was  too  close,  during  that 
rare  half-hour,  for  either  to  light  the  lamp.  He 
had  known  Ottalie  since  childhood ;  but  never 
before  like  this.  Her  tenderness  and  charm  and 
grave  beauty  had  never  been  so  near  to  him.  Two 
minutes  more  in  that  dusk  would  have  brought  him 
to  her  side.  He  would  have  taken  her  hands  in  his. 
He  would  have  asked  her  if  life  could  go  back  again, 
after  such  communion,  to  the  old  frank  comrade- 
ship. Then  Agatha  came  in,  with  her  hardness  and 
bustle  and  suspicion.  The  spell  had  been  broken. 
Agatha  rated  them  for  sitting  in  the  dark.    When  he 

25 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

lighted  the  lamp,  he  was  conscious  of  Agatha's  sharp 
critical  eye  upon  him,  and  of  a  certain  reproachful 
jealousy  in  her  tone  towards  Ottahe.  There  were 
little  hard  glances  from  one  face  to  the  other  ;  and 
then  some  ill-concealed  feminine  manoeuvring  to 
make  it  impossible  for  him  to  stay  longer.  He 
stayed  until  Agatha  became  pointed.  That  was 
the  last  time  he  had  seen  Ottahe.  He  had  heard 
from  her  from  time  to  time.  He  had  sent  her 
his  last  novel  and  his  book  of  tales.  She  had  sent 
him  a  silver  match-box  as  a  Christmas  present. 
Agatha,  in  a  postscript,  had  conveyed  her  "  love  " 
to  him. 

He  paused  on  the  north  side  of  the  avenue  to 
look  at  the  flat  windows  high  up  on  the  opposite 
side.     He  was  startled  to  see  a  light  in  Ottalie's 
bedroom,  a  long  gleam    of  hght  where  the  curtains 
parted,  a  gleam  dimmed  momentarily  by  someone 
passing.     For  five  seconds  he  saw  the  light,  then  it 
was  blown  out.     Someone  was  in  the  flat,  possibly 
Ottalie  herself.     He  might,  perhaps,  see  her  early 
the  next  morning.     She  might  be  there,  just  across 
the  road.     She  might  have  been  within  three  hun- 
dred yards  of  him  for  this  last  miserable  hour  ;   but 
it  was  strange  that  she  had  not  written  to  tell  him 
that  she  was  coming  to  town.     It  could  hardly  be 
Ottahe.     It  might  be  Agatha,  or  some  friend  to 
whom  they  had  lent  the  flat  for  the  season.     He  was 
eager  now  for  the  next  day  to  dawn,  so  that  he  might 
find  out.     He  was  utterly  weary.     He  hailed  a  cab 
and  drove  to  his  rooms  in  Westminster.    The  cab- 
man, thinking  him  an  easy  subject,  demanded  more 
than  the  excess  fare  given  to  him.    Roger  told  him 

26 


MUL7ITUDE    AND    SOLITUDE 

that  he  would  get  no  more,  and  entered  the  house. 
The  cabman,  becoming  abusive,  climbed  down 
and  battered  at  the  knocker,  till  the  approach  o£  a 
policeman  warned  him  that  any  further  attempts 
might  lead  to  a  summons.  He  drove  away  growl- 
ing. 

Roger  lived  in  chambers  in  one  of  the  old  houses 
of  Westminster.  He  rented  a  little  panelled  sitting- 
room,  a  bedroom,  also  panelled,  rather  larger,  and 
a  third  room  so  tiny  that  a  clothes-press  and  a  bath 
almost  filled  it.  He  Ht  his  lamp  to  see  what  letters 
had  come  for  him.  There  were  five  or  six,  none  of 
them  from  Ottalie.  A  telegram  lay  on  the  table. 
It  was  from  an  evening  paper  asking  for  the  favour 
of  an  interview  early  the  next  morning.  The  row 
at  the  theatre  was  bearing  fruit.  He  opened  his 
letters ;  but,  seeing  that  they  were  not  amusing, 
he  did  not  read  them.  He  went  into  his  bedroom 
to  undress.  On  the  mantelpiece  was  a  rehearsal 
call  card,  which  had  given  him  a  thrill  of  pleasure 
a  fortnight  before.  Now  it  seemed  to  grin  at  him 
with  a  devilish  inanimate  malice.  An  etched 
portrait  of  O'Neill  looked  down  mournfully  from 
the  wall.  A  photograph  of  Ottalie  on  the  dressing- 
table  was  the  last  thing  noticed  by  him  as  he  blew 
out  the  lamp. 

In  the  next  house  a  member  of  Parliament  lived. 
His  wife  was  musical,  in  a  hard,  accomplished  way. 
She  sang  cleverly,  though  her  voice  was  not  good. 
She  sang  as  her  excellent  masters  had  taught  her 
to  sing.  She  had  profited  by  their  teaching  to  the 
limits  of  her  nature.  In  moments  of  emotion,  when 
she  recognized  her   short-comings,  she  quoted   to 

27 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

herself  a  line  from  Abt  Vogler,  "  On  the  earth  a 
broken  arc,  in  the  heaven  a  perfect  round."  She 
was  an  irregular,  eccentric  lady,  fond  of  late  hours. 
This  night  some  wandering  devil  caused  her  to 
begin  to  play  at  midnight,  when  Roger,  utterly- 
exhausted  by  the  strain  of  the  evening,  was  falling 
to  a  merciful  sleep.  A  few  bars  was  enough  to 
waken  Roger.  The  wall  between  them  was  not  thick 
enough  to  dull  the  noise.  The  few  melancholy 
bars  gathered  volume.  She  began  to  sing  with  hard, 
metalHc  callousness,  with  disillusion  in  each  note. 
Poor  lady,  the  moment  was  beautiful  to  her.  She 
could  not  know  that  she,  in  her  moment  of  delight, 
was  an  instrument  of  the  malevolent  stars  next 
door.  Roger  sat  up  in  bed  with  a  few  impatient 
words.  He  knew  the  lady's  song  ;  he  had  heard 
Ottalie  sing  it.  Hearing  this  other  lady  sing  it  was 
instructive.  It  confirmed  him  in  a  theory  held  by 
him,  that  refinement  was  a  quality  of  the  entire 
personality ;  that  delicacy  of  feeling,  beauty  of 
nature,  niceness  of  tact,  were  shown  in  the  least 
movement,  in  the  raising  of  a  hand,  in  the  head's 
carriage,  in  the  least  sound  of  the  voice.  Ottalie 
sang  with  all  the  beauty  of  her  character,  giving 
to  each  note  an  indescribable  rightness  of  value, 
verbal  as  well  as  musical,  conveying  to  her  hearers  a 
sense  of  her  distinction  of  soul,  a  sense  of  the  noble 
living  of  dead  generations  of  Fawcetts ;  a  sense  of 
style  and  race  and  personal  exquisiteness.  This 
lady  sang  as  though  she  were  out  in  a  hockey  field, 
charging  the  ball  healthily,  in  short  skirts,  among 
many  gay  young  sprigs  from  the  barracks.  She 
sang  like  the  daughter  of  a  nouveau  riche.    Her  song 

2S 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

was  a  brief  liaison  between  Leipzig  and  a  vulgar 
constitution. 

Two  minutes  of  her  song  put  all  thought  of  sleep 
from  Roger's  mind.  He  lit  his  lamp  and  searched 
for  some  cigarettes.  Something  prompted  him  to 
take  down  Wentworth's  Tragedy  of  Poppaea.  He 
would  read  it  over  until  the  lady's  muscles  tired. 
He  lit  a  cigarette.  Propping  himself  up  with  pillows 
he  began  to  read,  admiring  the  precise  firmness  of 
the  rhythms,  and  that  quality  in  the  style  which 
was  all  fragrance  and  glimmer,  a  fine  bloom  of 
beauty,  never  too  much,  which  marked  the  artist. 
The  choruses  moved  him  by  their  inherent  music. 
They  were  musical  because  the  man's  mind,  though 
sternly  muscular  and  manly,  was  full  of  melody. 
They  were  unlike  most  modern  verse,  which  is 
reckoned  musical  when  it  shows  some  mechanical 
compliance  with  a  pattern  of  music  already  in  the 
popular  ear.  Roger,  as  a  writer  not  yet  formed,  was 
curious  in  all  things  which  showed  personal  dis- 
tinction and  striving.  This  exquisite  verse,  this 
power  of  fine,  precise  intellectual  conception,  was 
reward  enough,  he  thought,  for  the  misery  which 
this  poet  had  suffered  from  his  fellows.  Roger  won- 
dered how  many  ladies  like  the  singer  on  the  other 
side  of  the  wall  had  asked  poor  Wentworth  to  their 
"  At  Homes  "  for  any  but  a  vulgar  reason.  He 
remembered  how  Wentworth,  a  strict  moralist 
soured  by  a  life  of  suffering,  had  spoken  to  one  lady. 
"  You  will  buy  my  books  and  lay  them  on  your 
tables.  You  will  ask  me  to  dinner  to  amuse  your- 
self with  my  talk.  You  have  won  a  reputation  for 
wit  by  repeating  my  epigrams.    And  for  which  of 

29 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

my  ideas  do  you  care  two  straws,  for  which  would 
you  sacrifice  one  least  vanity,  for  which  would  you 
outrage  one  convention  ?  I  will  not  come  to  your 
'  At  Home.' " 

The  cigarette  was  smoked  out.  The  lady,  having 
finished  some  four  songs,  now  toyed  with  a  little 
Grieg,  a  little  Bach,  a  little  Schumann,  like  a  delicate 
butterfly  flying  by  the  finest  clockwork.  Roger,  who 
was  now  in  no  mood  for  sleep,  found  the  music  of 
some  value  as  an  accompaniment  to  Pop-paea.  It 
was  like  the  light  and  excitement  of  a  theatre,  added 
to  the  emotion  of  the  poetry.  He  read  through  to 
the  end  of  the  second  act,  when  his  eyes  began  to 
trouble  him.  Then  he  rose,  hurriedly  dressed, 
wrapped  himself  in  a  Chinese  robe,  embroidered 
with  green  silk  dragons,  and  passed  through  his 
sitting-room  window  on  to  the  balcony  above  the 
street.  It  was  a  narrow,  old-fashioned  balcony, 
big  enough  for  three  people,  if  the  people 
were  fond  of  each  other.  Structurally  it  was 
a  part  of  the  balcony  of  the  member's  house, 
but  an  old  straw  trellis-work  divided  the  two 
tenancies  at  the  party  wall.  Roger  placed  a  deck- 
chair  with  its  back  against  the  trellis,  which  shut 
off  the  member's  balcony  from  his.  He  was 
sheltered  from  above  by  a  green  verandah  canopy, 
and  from  the  street  by  another  trellis  about  five 
feet  high.  He  would  not  sleep  now,  until  four  ; 
he  knew  his  symptoms  of  old.  He  could  not 
read.  It  was  useless  to  lie  tossing  in  bed.  He 
sat  in  the  deck-chair  mournfully  munching  salted 
almonds.  He  was  in  a  state  of  unnatural  nervous 
excitement.     The  music  came  through  the  house 

30 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

delicately  to  him,  softened  by  two  walls,  one  of  them 
honestly  built  in  the  late  seventeenth  century.  He 
thought  that  John  O'Neill  would  be  distant  music  to 
him  henceforth.  Perhaps  the  dead  look  on  the  living 
souls  as  notes  in  a  music,  and  play  upon  them, 
making  harmony  or  discord,  according  to  the  power 
of  their  wills  and  the  quality  of  their  nature.  He 
could  imagine  John,  who  had  stricken  so  many 
living  souls  to  music,  playing  on  in  death,  not 
hampered  by  the  indifference  of  any  one  note, 
but  playing  upon  it  masterly,  rousing  it  to  music, 
by  striking  some  kindred  note,  reaching  it  through 
another,  as  perhaps  our  dead  friends  can.  But 
life  would  be  terrible  without  John.  He  remem- 
bered how  Lamb  walked  about  muttering  "  Cole- 
ridge is  dead."  A  great  spirit  never  expresses  herself 
perfectly.  She  needs  many  lesser  spirits  to  catch 
those  glittering  crumbs  and  fiery-flung  manna  seeds. 
When  the  bread  passes,  the  disciples  serve  scraps 
and  preach  bakery. 

He  finished  his  salted  almonds  regretfully,  re- 
membering that  he  was  out  of  olives.  He  lighted 
another  cigarette,  and  lay  there  smoking,  trying 
to  get  calm.  It  was  very  still  but  for  the  music  ; 
for  Davenant  Street  was  as  quiet  as  Dean's  Yard. 
The  windows  were  all  blank  and  dark  ;  people  were 
sleeping.  Big  Ben's  noble  tone  told  the  quarters. 
A  policeman  went  past  softly,  feeling  at  the  doors. 
Something  went  wrong  in  the  street  lamp  a  few 
yards  from  Roger's  perch.  It  fluttered  as  though 
some  great  moth  were  struggling  in  the  flame.  It 
died  down  to  a  few  flagging  points  of  light,  leaving 
the  dark  street  even   darker.     Big  Ben,  lifting   a 

31 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

solemn  sweet  voice,  tolled  two,  with  noble  melan- 
choly, resigned  to  death,  but  hungry  for  the  beauty 
of  life,  like  the  spirit  of  Raleigh  speaking.  Ottalie  was 
asleep  now,  the  grey  eyes  shut,  the  sweet  face  lying 
trustful.  John  was  with  the  pale  young  Spaniard, 
doing  what  ?  in  the  room  high  aloft  there,  over 
Queen  Square.  London  was  about  to  take  its  hour 
of  quiet.  Only  the  poets,  the  scholars,  and  the 
idlers  were  awake  now.  In  a  little  while  the  May 
dawn  would  begin.  Even  now  it  was  tinging  the 
cherry  blossom  in  Aleppo.  The  roses  of  Sarvistan 
were  spilling  in  the  heat.  The  blades  of  green  corn 
by  Troy  gleamed  above  the  river  as  the  wind  shook 
them.  Tenedos  rose  up  black,  watching  the  channel, 
now  showing  steel. 

Roger  lighted  another  cigarette  from  the  embers 
of  the  last.  It  was  too  quiet  to  strike  a  match.  The 
stillness  gave  him  an  emotional  pleasure.  It  gave 
him  a  sense  of  power,  as  though  he  were  the  only 
living  spirit  in  the  midst  of  all  this  death.  He  was 
sorry  when  the  music  stopped,  for  it  had  made  the 
stillness  more  impressive.  If  his  thoughts  had  not 
been  calmed  by  it,  they  had  at  least  been  made  more 
beautiful,  chaotic  as  they  were.  The  bitterness  of 
the  night  worked  less  bitingly.  He  was  conscious 
of  an  exaltation  of  the  mind.  Up  there  in  the  quiet, 
his  devotion  to  John,  his  passion  for  Ottalie,  and 
his  love  of  all  high  and  noble  art,  seemed  co- 
ordinated, in  a  grand  scheme  in  which  he  was 
both  god  and  man.  Standing  up,  he  looked  over 
the  trellis  into  the  street,  deeply  moved.  He 
was  here  to  perfect  that  magnificent  work  of  art, — 
himself.    John,  who  had  pointed  the  way,  was  gone 

32 


MULfHUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

now.  Ottalie,  who  had  inspired  him,  was  waiting 
with  her  crown  ;  or  perhaps  only  showing  it  to 
lure  him,  for  Nature,  prodigal  of  dust  and  weed, 
gives  true  beauty  sparingly.  It  was  for  him  to 
follow  that  lure  and  to  gather  strength  to  seize  it. 
The  world  was  a  little  dust  under  his  feet.  In  his 
soul  was  a  little  green  seed  bursting.  It  would 
grow  up  out  of  all  the  grime  and  muck  of  modern 
life,  among  all  the  flying  grit  of  the  air,  into  a 
stately  tree,  which  would  shelter  the  world  with 
beauty  and  peace.  He  would  be  a  supreme  soul. 
He  would  dominate  this  rabble  which  hooted 
him. 

He  lit  another  cigarette.  John  was  like  a  man  sent 
from  God.  John  was  unreal.  John  had  marched 
before  him  with  a  torch.  Now  that  ghostly  master 
of  his  had  thrust  the  torch  into  the  road,  pointing 
him  forward  with  a  gesture.  The  way  to  perfection 
lay  further  on,  along  a  path  too  narrow  for  two. 
Far  up  the  path  he  could  see  Ottalie,  a  glimmer  of 
fragrant  beauty,  half  hidden  in  a  whirling  dust- 
storm  which  almost  swept  him  off  the  ledge.  The 
dust  should  not  keep  him  from  her.  He  would  climb 
to  her.    They  would  go  on  together. 

At  this  instant,  as  the  melancholy  intensity  of  the 
bells  tolled  the  quarter-hour,  the  window-door 
opened  on  the  other  side  of  the  straw  trellis.  A 
lady  came  out  on  to  the  balcony.  She  hummed 
one  of  Heine's  songs  in  a  little  low  voice,  which 
left  the  music  full  of  gaps.  Roger  recognized  the 
singer's  voice.  He  wondered  if  her  husband  were 
with  her.  He  supposed  that  he  must  be  at  the 
House,  and  that  she  was  waiting  for  him.     Her 

D  33 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

skirts  rustled  as  she  moved.  A  faint  scent  o£  violet 
attracted  Roger  to  her.  It  v^^as  faint,  exotic,  and 
suggestive.  There  is  an  intoxication  in  perfumes. 
She  stood  there  for  a  full  ten  seconds  before  she 
divined  his  presence  beyond  the  screen.  Her  song 
stopped  instantly.  Two  seconds  more  convinced 
her  that  the  person  was  male  and  alone.  A  third 
suggested  that  he  was  a  burglar. 

"  Who  is  there  ?  "  she  said  quietly.  Her  voice 
was  anxious  rather  than  fearful. 

"  I'm  so  sorry,"  said  Roger.  He  did  not  know 
what  else  to  say.  "  I  live  here."  He  thought  that 
it  would  be  polite  to  go  indoors.  He  turned  to  go. 
To  his  surprise  she  spoke  again. 

"  Can  you  give  me  a  cigarette  ?  "  she  said.  She 
still  spoke  quietly.  She  spoke  as  if  a  maidservant 
were  in  the  room  behind  her.  Roger  was  flustered. 
He  was  a  man  of  quick  blood  in  a  condition  of 
excited  nerves. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  Will  you  have  Russian,  or 
American,  or  Turkish  ?  " 

She  appeared  to  debate  for  an  instant. 

"  Give  me  a  Russian,"  she  said.  "  Give  it  to  me 
through  this  hole  in  the  matting.    Thanks." 

"  Have  you  a  match  ?  "  Roger  asked. 

"  No,"  she  answered.  "  Give  me  a  light  from 
yours,  please.  Don't  set  the  mat  on  fire, 
though." 

He  thrust  his  burning  cigarette  through  the  hole 
in  the  matting.  He  felt  the  pressure  of  her  cigarette 
upon  it.  He  heard  her  quickened  breathing.  He 
saw  the  glow  brightening  through  the  mat  as  the 
tobacco  kindled. 

34 


MULTHUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 


"  Thanks,"  she  said  softly,  with  a  Httle  half -laugh. 
"  How  did  the  play  go  ?  " 

"  The  play  ?  "  Roger  stammered.     "  It  was 

Do  you  mean Which  play  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Your  play  ;  The  Roman  Matron.  You  are  Mr. 
Naldrett,  aren't  you  ?  I  met  you  once  for  a  moment 
at  a  house  in  Chelsea.  At  Mrs.  Melyard's,  three 
years  ago.     I  was  just  going." 

He  remembered  that  hectic  beauty  Mrs.  Mel- 
yard.  She  was  like  a  green  snake.  She  used  to 
receive  her  intimates  (she  had  no  friends)  in  a  room 
hung  with  viridian.  There  were  green  couches, 
green-shaded  lights,  a  gum  burning  greenly  in  a 
brazier  with  green  glass  sides.  She  herself  was 
dressed  in  green,  glittering,  metallic  scales,  which 
made  a  noise  like  serpent's  hissing  as  she  glided. 
"  Nothing  is  really  interesting  except  vice,"  was 
the  only  phrase  which  he  could  remember  of  Mrs. 
Melyard's  conversation.  She  was  a  feverish  charac- 
ter, explained  by  inherited  phthisical  taint.  Melyard 
collected  tsuba,  and  fenced  archaeologically  at  the 
Foil  Club.  He  was  the  best  rapier  and^dagger  man 
in  England. 

"  You  are  Mrs.  Templeton  ?  "  he  asked.  "  I 
remember  a  lady  at  Mrs.  Melyard's." 

"  I  wasn't  married  then,"  she  said  quickly.  "  How 
did  the  play  go  ?  " 

"  It  was  booed  off." 

"  I'm  sorry,"  she  said.  She  meant  "  I  am  sorry 
that  I  asked." 

Roger  wondered  how  he  could  get  away.  It 
depended  on  the  lady. 

"  Can't  you  sleep  ?  "  she  asked  suddenly. 

35 


MULTITUDE    AND    SOLITUDE 

"  No." 

"  I  can't.  Will  it  bore  you  to  come  in  to  talk 
to  us  ?  " 

He  was  used  to  unconventional  people.  He  saw 
nothing  strange  in  the  woman's  invitation.  Most 
of  the  women  known  to  him  would  have  acted  as 
simply  and  as  frankly  in  the  same  circumstances. 
He  knew  that  Templeton  seldom  went  to  bed 
before  two.  He  took  it  for  granted  that  Templeton 
was  in  the  sitting-room  ;    possibly  within  earshot. 

"  I'm  not  very  presentable,"  he  said.  "  Let  me 
change  this  robe." 

"  We  shan't  mind,"  she  said,  reassuring  him. 
"  Come  on." 

"  Will  you  let  me  in  ?  " 

"  We'll  pull  down  this  screen." 

They  pulled  down  the  old  matting  with  two 
vigorous  jerks.  Roger  stepped  across  the  partition 
into  the  further  balcony. 

"  Come  in,"  she  said,  passing  through  the  window. 
"  It's  dark  inside  here.  Take  care  of  the  chair  there." 
She  put  out  a  hand  to  pull  the  chair  away.  She  did 
it  roughly,  making  a  good  deal  of  noise. 

"  You  sit  here,"  she  said.  "  That  chair's  comfy. 
I'll  sit  here,  opposite  ;    here's  an  ash-tray." 

"  Could  I  light  a  lamp  or  candle  ?  "  Roger  asked, 
taking  out  his  match-box. 

"  No,  thanks,"  she  said.  "  Don't  light  up  just 
yet ;  I'm  sick  of  light.  I  wish  we  could  live  in  the 
dark,  like  wild  beasts." 

"  London  is  on  your  nerves,"  said  Roger.  "  The 
noise  and  worry  are  upsetting  you.  You  are 
tired  of  London,  not  of  light." 

36 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

He  was  disappointed  by  being  asked  to  sit  in 
darkness.  He  began  to  lose  interest  in  the  lady. 
She  was  only  a  modern  dramatic  heroine,  i.e. 
a  common  woman  overstrained.  He  had  heard 
similar  affected  siUiness  from  a  dozen  empty 
women,  some  of  them  pretty.  He  had  heard 
that  Mrs.  Templeton  was  pretty.  As  she  refused 
light,  he  decided  that  fame  had  Hed.  "  She  must 
be  a  blonde,"  he  thought,  "  and  this  room  is  Ht 
by  electricity."  He  wished  that  Templeton  would 
come.  Templeton  would  make  the  situation  easier, 
and  his  wife's  talk  more  sensible.  The  lady  was 
silently  trying  to  sum  him  up. 

"  No ;  I'm  not  tired  of  London,"  she  was 
saying.     "  Only  one  cannot  live  in  London." 

"  London  is  on  your  nerves,"  Roger  repeated. 
"  London  is  a  feverish  great  spider.  It  sucks 
out  vitality,  and  leaves  its  own  poison  instead. 
Look  at  the  arts.  A  young  artist  comes  up  here 
full  of  vitaHty.  Unless  he  is  a  truly  great  man, 
London  will  suck  it  all  out  of  him,  and  make  him 
as  poisonous  and  as  feverish  as  herself." 

"  Yes,  that  is  quite  true,"  she  answered.  "  I 
wish  we  could  all  be  simple  and  natural,  and  have 
time  to  live.  Life  is  so  interestin'.  The  only 
really  interestin'  thing." 

"  What  kind  of  life  do  you  wish  to  live  ?  " 

"  I  wish  to  live  my  own  life.  I  want  to  know 
my  own  soul.  To  live.  In  London  one  is  always 
livin'  other  people's  lives,  goin'  dinin',  doin'  things 
because  other  people  do  them.  But  where  else 
can  you  meet  interestin'  people  ?  " 

"  People    are   not    essential    to    true   life,"    said 

37 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

Roger.  "  I  believe  that  all  perfect  life  is  com- 
munion with  God,  conversation,  that  is,  with 
ideas  ;  '  godly  conversation.'  People  are  to  some 
extent  like  thoughts,  like  living  ideas  ;  for  the 
inner  and  the  outer  lives  correspond." 

"  You  mean  that  life  is  a  kind  of  curve  ?  " 
the  lady  interrupted.  The  question  was  a  moral 
boomerang.  She  often  used  it  defensively ;  she 
had  once  felled  a  scientist  with  it. 

"  Life  is  whatever  you  like  to  make  it." 

"  I'm  thinkin'  of  goin'  to  live  in  Ireland," 
said  the  lady.  "  The  people  must  be  so  exquisitely 
charmin'.  Such  a  beautiful  life,  sittin'  round 
the  fire,  singin'  the  old  songs.  And  then  their 
imagination  !  " 

"  Their  charm  is  superficial,"  said  Roger. 
"  Taking  the  times  together,  I've  lived  in  Ireland 
for  seven  years.  I  have  a  cottage  there.  I  do 
not  think  that  you  will  sit  round  many  fires,  to 
sing  old  songs,  after  the  first  fine  careless  rapture, 
which  lasts  a  month.  I'm  an  Englishman,  of 
course.  When  in  Ireland  I'm  only  one  of  the 
English  garrison.  I  may  be  wanting  in  sympathy  ; 
but  I  maintain  that  the  Irish  have  no  imagination. 
Imagination  is  a  moral  quality." 

"  I  don't  think  an  Englishman  can  understand 
the  Irish,"  said  the  lady. 

"  When  an  Irishman  is  great  enough  to  escape 
from  the  littleness  of  his  race,  he  becomes  a  very 
splendid  person,"  Roger  answered.  "  But  until 
that  happens  he  seems  to  me  to  be  wanting  in 
any  really  fundamental  quality." 

"  Oh,"  said  the  lady,  "  you  are  talking  so  very 

38 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

like  an  Englishman.  You  aren't  interested  in 
life,  I  see.  You  are  only  interested  in  morals. 
But  70U  cannot  say  that  the  Irish  have  no  imagina- 
tion. They  have  wonderful  imagination.  Look 
at  the  way  they  talk.  And  their  writers  :  Swift, 
Goldsmith,  Sheridan.  And  their  own  exquisite 
Irish  poets." 

"  I'd  give  the  whole  company  for  one  act  of 
Addison's  Cato,^^  said  Roger.  "  Swift  had  a  limited 
vision  and  a  diseased  mind.  He  diagnosed  his  own 
diseases.  Goldsmith  wrote  some  pretty  verses. 
But  I  do  not  think  that  you  have  read  them. 
Have  you  ?  Sheridan  wrote  a  comedy  at  the 
age  of  twenty-four  to  prove  that  a  sot  is  nobler 
than  a  scholar.  Later,  he  tried  to  prove  it  in  his 
own  person.  I  do  not  read  Irish.  I  have  read 
translations  from  it.  Its  distinctive  quality  seemed 
to  me  to  be  just  that  kind  of  windy  impersonality 
which  one  hears  in  their  talk." 

"  That  is  so  English  of  you,"  said  the  lady, 
laughing.  "  I  think  that  I  ought  to  be  very 
thankful  for  my  Celtic  blood." 

"  Are  you  a  Celt  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  from  Cornwall.  I  think  it  gives  me 
an  instinctive  love  of  the  beautiful." 

"  Those  who  love  beauty  make  it.  I,  too, 
have  been  a  Celt.  I  was  a  Celt  from  my  twenty- 
second  till  my  twenty-fifth  year.  Then  I  dis- 
covered a  very  curious  fact — two  facts." 

"  What  were  they  ?  " 

"  First,  that  the  Celt's  love  of  the  beautiful 
is  all  bunkum.  Second,  that  the  people  of  these 
islands  are  mongrels,  bred  from  the  scum  of  Europe. 

39 


MULTITUDE    AND    SOLITUDE 

You  can  call  yourself  an  Anglo-Saxon,  or  a  Celt, 
or  an  Aryan,  or  a  Norman,  or  a  Long-Barrow 
Pal^olith  ;  but  i£  you  came  from  these  islands, 
you  are  a  mongrel,  a  mongrel  of  a  most  chequered 
kind." 

At  this  instant  the  door  opened  suddenly, 
and  the  electric  light  was  turned  on.  In  the 
doorway  stood  Templeton — a  tall,  bald,  thin- 
faced  man,  with  foxy  moustache  and  weak  eyes.. 
His  face  showed  amazed  anger. 

"  What  is  this  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Let  me  introduce  you,"  said  the  lady.  "  My 
husband,  Mr.  Naldrett." 

Roger,  standing  up  under  the  angry  gaze  of 
Templeton,  was  conscious  of  looking  like  a  fool, 
in  his  robe  of  green  silk  dragons. 

"  I  don't  understand,"  said  Templeton. 

"  I  asked  Mr.  Naldrett  here  to  talk  to  me," 
said  the  lady. 

"  So  I  presume,"  said  Templeton. 

"  Have  you  had  an  interesting  sitting  ?  "  Roger 
asked. 

Templeton  did  not  answer.  He  was  glaring 
at  his  wife.  His  opera  hat  was  tilted  back  ;  his 
overcoat  was  unbuttoned  ;  an  unlighted  cigarette 
drooped  from  his  mouth. 

"  Archie,"  said  the  lady  suavely,  "  Mr.  Naldrett 
is  my  friend.     I  asked  him  here  to  talk  to  me." 

"  So  I  see,"  said  Templeton. 

"  To  talk  to  me,"  the  woman  repeated,  flaring 
up,  "  while  you  were  with  Mrs.  Liancourt,  at 
her  flat  in  St.  Anne's  Mansions.  I  know  when 
the  House  rose,  and  where  you  went  afterwards. 

40 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

If  you're  goin'  to  have  your  friends,  I'm  goin'  to 
have  mine." 

Templeton  seemed  to  gulp.  He  turned  to 
Roger. 

"  Perhaps  you  will  go,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  had  better,"  said  Roger.  "  I 
am  sorry  that  I  came." 

He  rose  to  go.  Mrs.  Templeton  turned  to 
him. 

"  A  quarter  to  three,"  she  said  sweetly.  "  You 
will  remember  that  ?  " 

Roger  looked  hard  at  Mrs.  Templeton.  Never 
again  would  he  speak  civilly  to  a  woman  with  high 
cheek-bones,  steel  eyes,  and  loose  mouth.  He 
bowed  to  her. 

"  I  didn't  deserve  it,"  he  said  quietly.  He  walked 
to  the  window-door,  feeling  like  some  discovered 
lover  in  a  play.  As  he  entered  the  balcony,  Temple- 
ton slammed  to  the  door  behind  him  with  a  snarl 
of  "  Now,"  as  he  opened  fire  on  his  wife.  Temple- 
ton's  flanks  were  turned.  He  was  blowing  up  his 
ammunition  wagons  before  surrendering. 

For  a  moment  Roger  felt  furious  with  Temple- 
ton. Then  he  blamed  the  lady.  She  had  played 
him  a  scurvy  trick.  Lastly,  as  he  began  to  under- 
stand her  position,  he  forgave  her.  He  blamed 
himself.  He  felt  that  he  had  mixed  himself 
with  something  indescribably  squalid. 

As  he  undressed  for  bed  he  blamed  the  world 
for  its  vulgarity,  and  dreariness,  and  savagery. 
The  world  was  too  much  with  him.  It  was  thwart- 
ing, and  blighting,  and  destroying  him.  He  longed 
to    get    away    from    the    world.     Anywhere.     To 

41 


MULTHUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

those  Irish  hills  above  the  sea,  to  his  beautiful 
friend,  to  some  peaceful,  gentle  life,  where  the 
squalor  of  his  night's  adventures  would  be  un- 
known and  unremembered.  He  felt  contaminated. 
He  longed  to  purify  himself  in  the  sea  below  his 
love's  home.  He  thought  of  that  water.  He 
saw  it  lit  by  the  sun,  with  tremulous  brown  sea- 
leaves  folding.  Sand  at  the  bottom,  six  feet 
down,  made  a  wrinkled  blur  of  paleness,  across 
which  a  lobster  crawled.  He  would  go  there. 
In  fifteen  hours  he  would  be  tearing  towards  it 
through  the  night,  past  the  great  glaring  towns, 
on  into  the  hills,  to  the  sea. 

A  thought  of  the  shaking  of  the  train,  and  of 
the  uneasy  sleep  of  the  people  in  the  carriage, 
merged  gradually  into  the  blur  which  precedes 
unconsciousness.  Before  Big  Ben  tolled  four  he 
was  asleep,  in  that  kind  of  restless  nightmare 
which  chains  the  will  without  chaining  the  in- 
telligence. In  that  kind  of  sleep  which  is  not 
sleep  he  dreamed  a  dream  of  Ottalie,  which 
awakened  him,  in  sudden  terror,  at  seven. 


42 


Ill 


I  prythee,  sorrow,  leave  a  little  room 
In  iny  confounded  and  tormented  mind 
For  understanding  to  deliberate 
The  cause  or  author  of  this  accident. 

The  Athehfi  Tragedy. 


HE  thought,  as  he  sat  up,  that  an  instant  before 
his  true  self  had  walked  in  the  spiritual  king- 
dom, apprehending  beauty.  Now,  with  the  shock  of 
waking,  the  glory  wavered,  like  a  fire  of  wet  wood, 
fitfully,  among  the  smoke  of  the  daily  life  flooding 
back  in  his  brain's  channels.  The  memory  of 
the  beauty  came  in  gleams,  moving  him  to  the 
bone,  for  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  spirit  of  his 
love  had  moved  in  the  chambers  of  his  brain, 
bringing  a  message  to  him,  while  the  dulnesses  of 
his  body  lay  arrested.  A  dream  so  beautiful  must, 
he  thought,  be  a  token  of  all  beauty,  a  sign,  per- 
haps, that  her  nature  was  linked  to  his,  for  some 
ecstatic  purpose,  by  the  power  outside  life.  Her 
beauty,  her  sweetness,  her  intense,  personal  charm, 
all  the  sacredness  that  clothed  her  about,  had 
walked  with  him  in  one  of  the  gardens  of  the  soul. 
That  was  glory  enough  ;  but  the  dream  was  in- 
tense and  full  of  mystery  ;  it  had  brought  him 
very  near  to  something  awful  and  immortal, 
so  strange  and  mighty  that  only  a  heart's  tick, 
something  in  the  blood,  had  kept  him  from  the 

43 


MULTITUDE    AND    SOLITUDE 

presence  o£  the  symbol-maker,  and  from  the  full 
knowledge  of  the  beauty  of  the  meaning  of  life. 

The  vision  seemed  meaningless  when  pieced 
together.  Words  in  it  had  seemed  revelations, 
acts  in  it  adventures,  romances  ;  but  judged  by 
the  waking  mind,  it  was  unintelligible,  though 
holy,  like  a  Mass  in  an  unknown  tongue. 

He  had  found  her  in  the  garden  at  her  home, 
among  flowers  lovelier  than  earthly  flowers,  among 
flowers  like  flames  and  precious  stones.  That 
was  the  beginning  of  it.  Then  in  the  sweetness 
of  their  talk  he  had  become  conscious  of  all  that 
her  love  meant  to  him,  of  all  that  it  meant  to  the 
power  which  directs  life,  of  all  that  his  failure 
to  win  her  would  mean,  here  and  hereafter.  Life 
had  seemed  suddenly  terrible  and  glorious,  a 
wrestle  of  God  and  devil  for  each  soul.  With 
this  consciousness  had  come  a  change  in  the  dream. 
She  had  gone  from  him. 

That  was  the  middle  of  it.  Then  that  also 
changed.  She  had  left  him  to  seek  for  her 
through  the  world.  Suddenly  she  had  sent  a 
message  to  him.  He  was  walking  to  meet  her. 
Delight  filled  him  as  wine  fills  a  cup.  He  would 
see  her,  he  would  touch  her  hand,  her  eyes  would 
look  into  his.  He  had  never  before  been  so  moved 
by  the  love  of  her.  His  delight  was  not  the  old 
selfish  pleasure,  but  a  rapturous  comprehension 
of  her  beauty,  and  of  that  of  which  her  beauty  was 
the  symbol.  He  knew,  as  he  walked,  that  the  be- 
loved life  in  her  was  his  own  finer  self,  longing  to 
transmute  him  to  her  brightness.  A  word,  a  touch, 
a  look,  and  they  would  be  together  in  nobleness;  he 

44 


MULTITUDE    AND    SOLITUDE 

would  breathe  the  beauty  of  her  character  like  pure 
air,  he  would  be  a  part  of  her  for  ever. 

So  he  had  walked  the  streets  to  her,  noticing 
nothing  except  the  brightness  of  the  sun  on  the 
houses,  till  he  had  stood  upon  the  stair-top  knocking 
vainly  at  the  door  of  an  empty  house.  It  came 
upon  him  then  with  an  exhaustion  of  the  soul, 
like  death  itself,  that  he  had  come  too  late.  She 
had  gone  away  disappointed,  perhaps  angry.  The 
door  would  never  open  to  him  ;  he  would  never 
meet  her  again  ;  never  even  enter  the  hall,  dimly 
seen  through  the  glass,  to  gather  relics  of  her. 
Within,  as  he  could  see,  lay  a  handkerchief  and 
a  withered  flower  once  worn  by  her,  little  relics 
bitterly  precious,  to  be  nursed  in  his  heart  in  a 
rapture  of  agony,  could  he  only  have  them.  But 
he  had  come  too  late  ;  he  had  lost  her  ;  his  heart, 
wanting  her,  would  be  empty  always,  a  dead  thing 
going  through  life  like  a  machine.  In  his  vision 
he  could  see  across  to  Ireland,  to  her  home.  He 
could  see  her  there ;  sad  that  she  had  not  seen  him. 
He  had  tried  to  wade  to  her  through  a  channel  full 
of  thorns,  which  held  him  fast.  From  the  midst  of 
the  thorns  he  could  see  a  young  man,  with  a  calm, 
strong  face,  talking  to  her.  Shaken  as  he  was  by  grief, 
and  prepared  for  any  evil,  he  realized  that  this  youth 
was  to  be  her  mate,  now  that  he  had  lost  her. 

Lastly,  at  the  end  of  the  dream,  he  had  received 
a  letter  from  her,  with  the  postmark  Athens  across 
the  Greek  stamp.  The  letter  had  been  the  most 
real  part  of  the  dream.  It  was  her  very  hand, 
a  dashing,  virile  hand,  with  weak,  unusual  f's, 
t's  crossed  far  to  the  right  of  their  uprights,  and 

45 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

a  negligent  beauty  in  some  of  the  curves  of  the 
capitals.  The  letters  were  small,  the  down-strokes 
determined  but  irregular,  never  twice  the  same. 
It  was  the  hand  of  a  vivid,  charming,  but  not 
very  strong  character.  He  could  not  remember 
what  the  letter  said.  Only  one  sentence  at  the 
end  remained.  "  I  have  read  your  last  book," 
it  ran  ;  "  it  reads  like  the  diary  of  a  lost  soul." 
There  was  no  signature  ;  nothing  but  the  paper, 
with  the  intensely  vivid  writing,  and  that  one 
sentence  plainly  visible.  It  was  even  sound  criti- 
cism. The  book  of  sketches  had  been  self-conscious 
experiments  in  style,  detached,  pictorial  pre- 
sentations of  crisis,  clever  things  in  their  way, 
but  startling,  both  in  colour  and  in  subject,  the 
results  of  moods,  not  of  perfected  personality. 
The  sketches  had  been  ill  -  assorted  ;  that  was 
another  fault.  But  he  had  not  thought  them 
evil.  Sitting  up  in  bed,  with  the  damning  sen- 
tence still  vivid,  he  felt  that  they  must  be  evil, 
because  she  disliked  them.  He  had  created  brutal, 
erring,  passionate,  and  wicked  types,  with  frank 
and  natural  creative  power.  At  this  moment  he 
felt  himself  judged.  He  felt  for  the  first  time 
that  the  theories  of  art  common  to  the  little 
party  of  his  friends,  were  not  so  much  theories  of 
art  as  declarations  of  youthful  independence, 
soiled  with  personal  failures  of  perception  and 
personal  antipathies.  He  was  wrong ;  his  art 
was  all  wrong  ;  his  art  was  all  self-indulgence,  not 
self-perfection.  An  artist  had  no  right  to  create 
at  pleasure,  ignoble  types  and  situations,  fixing 
fragments   of   the   perishing   to   the   walls   of   the 

46 


MULTHUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

world,  as  a  keeper  nails  vermin.  Ottalie's  fair 
nature  was  not  nourished  on  such  work.  Great 
art  called  such  work  "  sin,"  "  denial  of  the  H0I7 
Ghost,"  "  crucifixion  of  our  Lord."  He  reached 
for  the  offending  book ;  but  the  words  seemed 
meaningless  ;  some  of  the  intricate  prose-rhythms 
were  clever.  But  anybody  can  do  mechanics 
and  transcribe.  Style  and  imagination  are  the 
difficult  things.  He  put  the  book  aside,  wondering 
if  he  would  ever  do  good  work. 

He  was  haunted  by  the  dream  until  he  was 
dressed.  Then  the  memories  of  the  night  before 
came  in  upon  him,  the  yells  of  the  mob,  hooting 
his  soul's  child,  the  bloated  face  of  the  sot,  his 
friend's  farewell  that  had  had  neither  warning 
nor  affection,  the  indignity  of  the  visit  to  the 
Templetons',  till  the  world  seemed  to  be  pressing 
its  shapeless  head  upon  his  windows,  shrieking  in- 
sults at  him,  through  yielding  glass.  He  began  to 
realize  that  he  had  had  the  concentrated  torment 
of  months  suddenly  stamped  upon  him  in  a  night. 
His  work,  his  person,  his  affections,  his  social 
nature  had  all  been  trampled  and  defiled.  He 
wondered  what  more  torments  were  coming  to 
him  with  the  new  day.  Some  forethought  of 
what  was  coming  crossed  his  mind  when  he  saw 
his  breakfast-table.  Beside  his  teacup  were  three 
or  four  daily  papers,  in  which,  in  clear  type,  were 
set  forth  the  opinions  of  Britain's  moral  guardians 
concerning  their  immoral  brother. 

There  were  letters  first,  some  of  them  left  from 
the  night  before.  An  obscure  acquaintance,  a 
lady    in    Somersetshire,    sent    some    verses,    asking 

47 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

for  his  criticism,  and  for  the  address  of  "  a  pub- 
Hsher  who  would  pay  for  them."  One  of  the  poems 
began—  ,.  ^^^^  ,  ^^^^  ,  ^^^^ , 

'Tis  the  song  of  the  Lark, 
Dewy  with  spangles  of  morn." 

A  second  letter  from  the  same  lady  enclosed 
a  "  Poem  on  My  Cat  Peter,"  which  had  been 
accidentally  omitted  from  the  other  envelope. 
His  agent  sent  him  a  very  welcome  cheque  for 
j^io8,  for  his  newly  completed  novel.  Next  came 
a  letter  from  a  stranger,  asking  for  permission  to 
set  some  verses  to  music.  A  charitable  countess 
asked  for  verses  for  her  new  Bazaar  Book.  An 
American  News  Cutting  Bureau  sent  a  little  bundle 
of  reviews  of  his  book  of  sketches.  The  wrapper 
on  the  bundle  bore  a  legend  in  red  ink  :  — 

"  We  mail  you  45  clippings  of  The  Handful. 
Has  your  Agency  sent  you  that  many  ?  If  you 
like  our  way  of  business,  mail  us  $1.50,  and  we  will 
continue  to  collect  clippings  under  your  name." 

He  disliked  their  way  of  business.  He  flung 
the  clippings  unread  into  the  fireplace.  The 
next  letter  asked  him  to  lecture  to  the  Torch- 
bearers'  Guild,  who,  it  seemed,  admired  "  the 
virile  manliness  "  of  his  style.  Last  of  all  came 
a  letter  from  an  unknown  clergyman  denouncing 
the  pernicious  influence  of  The  Handful  in  words 
which,  without  being  rude,  were  offensive  beyond 
measure.  He  took  up  the  papers. 
•  The  first  paper,  The  Daily  Dawn,  treated  him 
d'haut  en  has,  as  follows  : — 

M.     Falempin's    latest    theatrical    adventure, 

48 


<< 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

A  Romafi  Matron,  hj  Mr.  Roger  Naldrett  (whom 
we  suspect,  from  internal  evidence,  to  be  a  not 
very  old  lady),  was  produced  last  night  at  the 
King's  Theatre.  As  far  as  the  audience  permitted 
us  to  judge,  before  the  piece  ended  in  a  storm  of 
groans,  we  think  that  it  is  entirely  unsuited  to 
the  modern  stage.  The  character  of  Petronius, 
finely  played  by  Mr.  Danvers,  showed  some  power 
of  psychological  analysis  ;  but  Mr.  (or  Miss) 
Naldrett  would  do  well  to  remember  that  the 
Aristotelian  definition  of  tragedy  cannot  be  dis- 
regarded lightly." 

The  criticism  in  the  second  paper.  The  Day- 
spring,  was  written  in  more  stately  prose  than 
that  of  The  Dawji. 

"  An  unreasonable  amount  of  excitement  was 
begotten  by  the  entourage,"  it  ran  ;  "  but  the 
piece,  which  was  dull,  and  occasionally  disgusting, 
convinced  us  that  the  New  Drama,  about  which 
we  have  heard  so  much  lately,  would  do  better 
to  adequately  study  a  drama  more  germane  to 
modern  ideas,  such  as  we  fortunately  possess, 
than  libel  the  institutions  from  which  our  glorious 
Constitution  is  derived,"  which  was  certainly  a 
home-thrust  from  The  Dayspring. 

The  third  paper.  The  Morning,  in  its  news  column, 
referred  to  a  disgraceful  fracas  at  the  King's 
Theatre.  "  The  pohce,"  said  The  Morning,  "  were 
soon  on  the  spot,  and  removed  the  more  noisy 
members  of  the  audience.  Neither  M.  Falempin, 
the  manager  of  the  theatre,  nor  Miss  Hanlon, 
who  took  a  leading  part  in  the  offending  play, 
would    consent   to    be   interviewed,    when   waited 

E  49 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

on,    late    last    night,    by   a    representative    of    this 


paper  " 


The  fourth  paper,  The  Day,  said  savagely  that 
The  Matron  should  never  have  passed  the  Censor, 
and  that  its  production  was  an  indelible  blot 
on  M.  Falempin's  (hitherto  spotless)  artistic  record. 
Roger  had  written  occasional  reviews  for  The  Day, 
about  a  dozen,  all  told.  On  the  same  page,  and 
in  the  column  next  to  that  containing  the  "  Dra- 
matic Notes,"  was  a  review  signed  by  him.  Roger 
turned  to  this  review,  to  see  how  it  read.  It  was 
a  review  of  a  worthless  book  of  verse  by  a  successful 
versifier.  The  literary  editor  of  The  Day  had 
asked  Roger  to  write  a  column  on  the  book.  As 
the  book  deserved,  at  most,  three  scathing  words  in 
a  Dunciad,  Roger  had  written  a  column  about 
poetry,  a  very  pretty  piece  of  critical  writing, 
worth  five  thousand  such  books  fifty  times  over. 
Its  only  fault  was  that,  being  about  poetry,  it 
had  little  reference  to  the  book  of  verse  by  the 
successful  poet.  So  the  literary  editor  had  "  cut  " 
and  "  written  in "  and  altered  the  article,  till 
Roger,  reading  it,  on  this  tragical  morning,  found 
himself  self-accused  of  despicable  truckling  to 
Mammon,  and  the  palliation  of  iniquity,  in  sen- 
tences the  rhythms  of  which  jarred,  and  in  plati- 
tudes which  stung  him.  He  flung  down  the 
paper.  He  would  never  again  write  for  The 
Day.  He  would  never  write  another  word  for 
any  daily  or  weekly  paper.  He  remembered  what 
d'Arthez  says  in  Les  Illusions  Perdues.  He  blamed 
himself  for  not  having  remembered  before. 

He   ate   very  hurriedly,   so   that   he   might   lose 

50 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

no  time  in  getting  to  the  flat  in  Shaftesbury  Avenue, 
to  find  out  if  OttaHe  were  really  there.  Ottalie  ; 
the  sight  of  Ottalie  ;  the  sound  of  her  voice  even, 
would  end  his  troubles  for  him.  The  thought 
of  her  calmed  him.  The  thought  of  her  brought 
back  the  dream,  with  a  glow  of  pleasure.  The 
dream  came  and  went  in  his  mind,  seeming  now 
strange,  now  beautiful.  His  impression  of  it  was 
that  given  by  all  moving  dreams.  He  thought 
of  it  as  a  kind  of  divine  adventure  in  which  he 
had  taken  part.  He  felt  that  he  had  apprehended 
spiritually  the  mysterious  life  beyond  ours,  and 
had  learned,  finally,  for  ever,  that  Ottalie's  soul 
was  linked  to  his  soul  by  bonds  forged  by  powers 
greater  than  man.  A  cab  came  clattering  up. 
There  came  a  vehement  knocking  at  the  outer 
door.  "  Ottalie,"  he  thought.  Selina,  the  house- 
maid, entered. 

"  A  lady  to  see  you,  sir,"  she  said. 

He  stood  up,  gulping,  expecting  Ottalie.  The 
lady  entered.  She  was  not  Ottalie.  She  was  a 
total  stranger  in  a  state  of  great  excitement. 

"  Are  you  Mr.  Naldrett,  sir  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Yes.     Yes.     What  is  it  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Pollock's  compliments,  sir,  and  will  you 
please  come  round  at  once  ?  " 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  " 

"  It's  Mr.  Pollock,  sir.  He's  had  a  fit  or  some- 
think.  He's  lying  in  the  grate  with  all  the  blood 
gone  to  his  apalex." 

"  Right,"  said  Roger,  stuffing  his  letters  into 
his  pockets.     "  I'll  come.     When  did  it  happen  ?  " 

"  Just  now,  sir.     He'd  just  gone  into  the  studio, 

SI 


MULTHUDE    AND    SOLITUDE 

to  begin  his  painting.  Then  there  came  a  crash. 
And  the  missus  and  I  rush  in,  and  there  he  was  in 
the  grate,  sir." 

"  Yes.     Yes.     Have  you  sent  for  a  doctor  ?  " 

"  No,  sir.     The  missus  said  to  go  for  you." 

They  galloped  off  in  the  cab  together.  Pollock 
with  the  bloody  apalex  was  a  young  artist  whose 
studio  was  in  Vincent  Square.  Roger  was  fond 
of  him.  He  had  shared  rooms  with  him  until 
his  marriage.  Roger  wondered  as  he  drove  what 
was  going  to  happen  to  the  wife  if  Pollock  died. 
She  was  expecting  a  child.  Pollock  hadn't  made 
much,  poor  fellow. 

"  Very  beautiful  paintings,  Mr.  Pollock  does, 
sir,"  said  the  lady  with  enthusiasm.  "  Oh,  he 
does  them  beautiful.  But  they're  not  like  ordinary 
pictures.  I  mean,  they're  not  pretty,  like  ordinary 
pictures.     They're  like  old-fashioned  pictures." 

"  Yes,"  said  Roger.  "  Tell  me.  Is  his  big 
picture  finished  ?  The  one  with  the  lady  under 
a  stained-glass  window." 

"  No,  sir.  It's  got  a  lot  to  do  yet,  sir.  O  I 
'ope  nothink's  going  to  'appen  to  'im,  sir." 

"  Now  here  we  are,"  said  Roger,  as  the  cab 
slackened.  "  Now  you  drive  to  the  corner  there. 
You'll  see  a  brass  plate  with  Dr.  Collinson 
on  it  at  the  corner  house.  Tell  him  to  get  into 
the  cab  with  you  and  come  round  at  once.  Go 
on,  now.     See  that  he  comes  at  once." 

The  door  of  the  flat  stood  open.  Roger  entered 
hurriedly.  Just  inside  he  ran  against  Pollock, 
who  was  hastening  with  a  jug  of  water  from  the 
bathroom. 

52 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

"  What  is  it,  Pollock  ?     Are  you  better  ?  " 

"  I'm  all  right,"  said  Pollock,  feeling  a  bandaged 
head.    "  It's  Kitty.    Not  me.    Come  on  in,  quick." 

"  But  I  thought  you  were  having  apoplexy." 

"  That  heavy  frame  full  of  Diirers  came  down. 
The  corner  caught  me  over  the  eye  while  I  was 
standing  by  the  mantelpiece.  It  knocked  me  out. 
Come  on  in.     I  believe  Kitty's  in  a  bad  way." 

Kitty  lay  on  a  couch.  Her  face  was  not  like 
a  human  being's  face.  Pollock,  very  white,  sponged 
her  brow  with  cold  water. 

"  There,  dear,"  he  kept  saying.  "  O  God,  O 
God,  O  God,"  those  words,  over  and  over  again. 

Roger  ran  to  the  bedroom  for  pillows.  There 
was  a  fire  in  the  kitchen.  He  poked  it  up,  and  put 
water  to  boil. 

"  Where's  her  hot-water  bottle  ?  "  he  called. 
Not  getting  any  answer  he  looked  for  it  in  one 
of  the  beds,  which  had  not  yet  been  made  up.  He 
filled  the  bottle  and  made  up  the  bed.  "  Now, 
Charles,"  he  said,  "we  must  get  her  into  bed. 
I  wish  your  girl  would  bring  the  doctor." 

Charles  looked  at  him  stupidly.  "  I  beheve 
she's  dying,  Roger,"  he  answered.  "  O  God,  I 
believe  she's  dying.  I've  never  seen  anyone  like 
this.  She  used  to  be  so  pretty,  Roger,  before  all 
this  happened." 

"  Dying  ?  Nonsense !  "  said  Roger.  He  turned 
to  the  patient.  "  Kitty,"  he  said,  "  we're  going 
to  put  you  to  bed.     Lean  on  my  arm." 

The  laughter  stopped ;  but  the  limbs  crazily 
made  protest.  He  had  never  seen  anything  like 
it.     It  was  as  though  the  charming  graceful  woman 

53 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

had  suddenly  been  filled  by  the  spirit  of  a  wild 
animal,  which  was  knocking  itself  to  pieces  against 
the  corners  in  the  strange  house. 

"  We  shall  have  to  carry  her,  Charles,"  he  said. 

"  No,  no,"  said  Charles.     "  She's  dying." 

The  doctor,  coming  in  abruptly,  took  the  battle 
out  of  his  hands.  "  Come,  come,"  he  said.  "  Come, 
Mrs.  Pollock.  I  was  afraid  that  you  were  ill. 
You'll  feel  a  lot  better  when  you  get  to  bed.  I 
want  you  to  rest." 

He  turned  to  Pollock.  "  Get  her  into  bed,"  he 
said.     "  Have  you  got  a  nurse  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Pollock.     "  She  can't  come  till  July." 

"  Bessie  here  will  do  for  the  moment,"  said 
Roger. 

Bessie  and  Pollock  helped  her  to  bed.  The 
doctor  and  Roger  talked  desultorily. 

"  No.  It's  nothing  serious.  So  the  frame  came 
down  and  stunned  him  ?  I  see.  And  she  came 
in  and  found  him  in  the  grate  ?  Yes.  A  nasty 
shock.  Yes.  Yes.  Of  course,  it  may  be  serious. 
It  will  be  impossible  to  say  till  I  see  her.     If  she 

had  had  other  children  I  should  say  not.     But 

Would  you  say  that  she  is  an  excitable  woman, 
given  to  these  attacks  ?  " 

"  No.  She  used  to  write  a  little.  She  is  ner- 
vous ;  but  not  excitable.  Do  you  find  that 
occupation  has  much  influence  on  the  capacity 
to  resist  shock  ?  " 

"  N-no,"  said  the  doctor.  "  Resistance  de- 
pends on  character.  Occupation  only  modifies 
character  slightly.  Life  being  what  it  is,  one 
has  to  be  adaptable  to  survive.  " 

54 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

Pollock  entered,  looking  beaten. 

"  Will  you  come,  doctor  ?  "  he  said. 

They  went. 

Presently  Pollock  returned  alone.     He  sat  down. 

"  It's  It,"  he  said  despondently.  "  My  picture's 
not  done.  I  shan't  have  a  penny  till  July.  We 
were  counting  on  its  not  happening  till  July. 
I've  not  got  ten  pounds." 

"  You  mustn't  worry  about  that,"  said  Roger. 
"  You  must  borrow  from  me.  Take  this  cheque. 
I'll  endorse  it.  Give  me  yours  for  half  of  it. 
Don't  say  you  won't.  Look  here.  You  must.  Now 
about  a  nurse.  Look  here.  Listen  to  me,  Charles. 
You  can't  leave  here.  I'll  see  about  a  nurse. 
I  know  the  sort  of  woman  Kitty  would  like.  I'll 
settle  all  that  with  the  doctor.  I'll  send  the  best 
I  can.     You  can't  leave  Kitty,  that's  certain." 

Pollock  pulled  himself  together.  The  doctor 
returned.  Roger  took  the  addresses  of  several 
women,  and  hurried  off  to  interview  them.  No 
cab  was  in  sight.  He  wasted  ten  good  minutes  of 
nervous  tension  in  trying  to  find  one.  He  found 
one  at  last.  As  he  drove,  the  desire  to  be  at 
OttaHe's  flat  made  him  forget  his  friend.  He 
thought  only  of  the  chance  of  seeing  Ottalie. 
He  must  waste  no  time.  He  wondered  if  he  would 
be  too  late,  as  in  his  dream.  He  would  have  to  get 
there  early,  very  early.  He  prayed  that  the  first 
nurse  on  his  list  might  be  a  suitable  woman.  The 
image  of  the  suitable  nurse,  a  big,  calm,  placid, 
ox-eyed  woman,  formed  in  his  mind.  If  he  could 
find  her  at  once  he  would  be  in  time.  He  was 
longing   to   be   pounding   past   Whitehall,   on   the 

55 


MULTHUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

way  to  Shaftesbury  Avenue.  A  clock  above  a 
hosier's  told  him  that  it  was  nine.  No.  That 
clock  had  stopped.  Another  clock,  further  on, 
over  a  general  store,  said  eight-fifteen.  Yet  an- 
other, eight-thirty.  His  watch  said  eight-thirty- 
five  ;    but  his  watch  was  fast. 

Mrs.  Perks,  of  7  Denning  Street,  was  out.  Would 
he  leave  a  message  ?  No,  he  would  not  leave 
a  message.  Was  it  Mrs.  Ford  ?  No,  not  Mrs. 
Ford,  another  lady.  Perhaps  he  would  come 
back.  He  bade  the  cabman  to  hurry.  Mrs.  Stan- 
ton, the  next  on  the  list,  could  not  come.  She 
was  expecting  a  call  from  another  lady.  Mrs. 
Sanders  was  out,  and  "  wouldn't  be  back  all  day, 
she  said."  The  fourth,  a  brisk,  level-headed  wo- 
man, busy  at  a  sewing-machine  in  a  neat  room, 
would  come  ;  but  was  he  the  husband,  and  could 
she  be  certain  of  her  fees,  and  what  servants  were 
kept  ? 

He  said  that  the  fees  were  safe.  He  gave  her 
two  sovereigns  on  account.  Then  she  boggled 
at  the  single  servant.  She  was  not  very  strong. 
She  had  never  before  been  with  any  lady  with  only 
one  servant.  She  wasn't  sure  how  she  would  get 
on.     She  had  herself  to  consider. 

"  Fm  sorry,"  said  Roger.  "  You  would  have 
been  the  very  woman.     FU  go  on  to  the  hospital." 

"  Perhaps  I  could  manage,"  she  said. 

"  Will  you  come  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Is  it  in  a  house  or  a  flat  ?  " 

"  It's  in  a  top  flat." 

"  I  dare  say  I  could  manage,"  she  said,  still 
hesitating. 

56 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

Roger,  remembering  suddenly  that  Pollock  had 
a  married  sister,  vowed  that  another  lady  would 
be  there  a  good  deal  in  the  daytime.  She  weighed 
this  fact  as  she  stood  by  the  door  of  the  cupboard, 
about  to  take  her  hat. 

"  I  don't  think  I  should  care  to  do  it,"  she  said 
suddenly.  "  I've  not  been  used  to  that  class  of 
work." 

Turning  at  the  door  as  he  went  out,  he  saw 
that  she  was  watching  him  with  a  faint  smile. 
Only  the  hospital  remained. 

It  took  him  a  long  way  out  of  his  way.  It  was 
twenty  past  nine  when  he  reached  the  hospital. 
Very  soon  it  would  be  too  late  for  Ottalie.  His 
heart  sank.  He  believed  in  telepathy.  He  was 
thinking  so  fixedly  on  Ottalie  that  he  believed  that 
she  must  sense  his  thought.  "  Ottahe,  Ottahe," 
he  kept  saying  to  himself.  "  Wait  for  me.  Wait 
for  me.  I  shall  come.  I  am  coming  as  fast  as 
I  can.  Can't  you  feel  me  hurrying  to  you  ?  Wait 
for  me.  Don't  let  me  miss  you."  He  discharged 
his  horse  -  cab,  and  engaged  a  motor-cab.  Two 
minutes  later  he  had  engaged  a  nurse.  She  was  in 
the  cab  with  him.     They  were  whirling  south. 

"  No,"  she  was  telhng  him.  "  I  don't  find 
much  difference  in  my  cases.  I  don't  generally 
see  them  after.  Some  are  more  interesting  than 
others.  I  like  being  with  an  interesting  case. 
I  don't  mean  to  say  a  serious  case,  and  have  either 
of  them  die,  and  that.  I  mean,  you  know,  out  of 
the  usual.  That's  why  I  like  having  to  do  with 
a  first  child." 

She  asked  if  there  were  any  chance  of  her  being 

57 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

too   late.     Roger,   with   his   heart   full   of   Ottalie, 
could  not  tell  her. 

"  I  shouldn't  like  to  be  too  late,"  she  said. 
"  I've  never  missed  a  case  yet.  Never.  I  should 
be  vexed  if  I  were  too  late  with  this  one.  It's  a 
painter  gentleman,  I  think  you  said  it  was  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  was  with  a  painter's  lady  once  before,"  she 
said.     "  He  gave  me  a  little  picture    of  myself." 

They  reached  the  flat.  Pollock's  sister  had  arrived. 
The  doctor  had  sent  his  son  for  her.  Pollock  was 
moodily  breaking  chalk  upon  a  drawing.  The 
studio  was  foul  with  the  smoke  of  cigarettes.  "  I 
can't  work,"  he  said,  lighting  a  cigarette  from  the 
fag-end  of  the  last.  "  Sit  down."  He  flung  away 
his  chalk  and  sat  down.  "  You've  been  awfully 
good  to  me,  Roger.  You've  got  me  out  of  a  tragedy. 
You  don't  know  what  it  feels  like." 

"  How  is  Kitty  ?  " 

"  Pretty  well,  the  doctor  thinks.  God  knows 
what  he  would  call  bad.  This  is  all  new  to  me.  I 
don't  want  to  go  through  this  again.  God  knows 
if  she'll  ever  get  through  it.  I  shall  shoot  myself 
if  anything  happens  to  Kitty." 

Roger  glanced  at  his  watch.  It  was  eighteen 
minutes  to  ten.  He  would  have  to  fly  to  find 
Ottalie.  If  she  were  in  town  at  all,  she  would  be 
out  by  ten.  He  was  sure  of  that.  His  motor-cab 
was  waiting.  He  had  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  But 
how  could  he  leave  Pollock  in  this  state  ? 

"  Charles,"  he  said,  "  I  want  you  to  come  out 
with  me.  You've  got  on  shoes,  I  see.  Take  your 
hat.      Kitty  is  with  three  capable  women  and  a 

58 


MUMHUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

doctor.  You're  only  in  the  way,  and  making  a  fuss. 
Come  with  me.  I'll  leave  you  at  the  National 
Gallery,  while  I  see  a  friend.  Then  we'll  go  to 
Bondini's,  in  Suffolk  Street."  He  called  gently  to 
Pollock's  sister.  "  Mrs.  Fane,"  he  said,  "  I'm  taking 
Charles  to  Bondini's,  in  Suffolk  Street." 

"  A  very  good  thing,"  said  Mrs.  Fane.  "  A  man 
is  much  better  out  of  the  way  in  times  like  these." 

They  started.  Just  outside  Dean's  Yard  Gate 
the  cab  broke  down.  Roger  got  out.  "  What's  the 
matter  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Nothing  much,  sir,"  said  the  man,  already  busy 
under  the  bonnet.  "  I  won't  keep  you  a  minute. 
Get  in  again,  sir." 

A  hand  touched  Roger's  arm.  He  turned.  A 
total  stranger,  unmistakeably  a  journalist,  was  at 
his  side.  Roger  shuddered.  It  was  an  interviewer 
from  The  Meridian. 

"  Mr.  Naldrett  ?  "  said  the  interviewer,  taking 
a  long  shot.  "  I  recognized  you  by  your  portrait 
in  The  Bibliophile.  A  lucky  meeting.  Perhaps  you 
didn't  get  my  telegram.  I  called  round  at  your 
rooms  just  now,  but  you  were  out.  I  want  to  ask 
you  about  your  play  The  Matron.  It  attracted 
considerable  attention.  Will  you  please  tell  me  if 
you  have  any  particular  ideas  about  tragedy  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Roger  ;  "  I  have.  And  I'm  going 
to  express  them.  I'm  in  a  great  hurry  ;  and  I  must 
refuse  to  be  interviewed.  Please  thank  your  editor 
from  me  for  the  honour  he  has  done  me  ;  but  tell 
him  that  I  cannot  be  interviewed." 

"  Certainly  not,  since  you  wish  it,"  said  the 
journalist.    "  But  I  would  like  to  ask  you  one  thing. 

59 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

I    am   told   your   play   is   very   morbid.      Are   you 
morbid  ?     You  don't  look  very  morbid." 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  Roger.  "  But  I  am  not  mor- 
bid." 

"  Mr.  Naldrett,"  said  the  journalist,  "  are  you 
going  to  write  any  more  tragedies  like  The  Roman 
Matron  ?  " 

"  I  have  one  finished  and  one  half  finished,"  said 
Roger. 

"  I  hope,  Mr.  Naldrett,"  said  the  journalist, 
"  that  you  have  written  them  for  ordinary  people, 
as  well  as  to  please  yourself.  Writing  to  please 
one's  self  is  very  artistic.  But  won't  you  consider 
Clapham,  and  Balham,  and  Tooting  ?  How  will 
you  please  them  with  tragedies  ?  A  good  comedy 
is  what  people  like.  They  want  something  to  laugh 
at,  after  their  day's  work.  They're  quite  right.  A 
good  comedy's  the  thing.  Anybody  can  write  a 
tragedy.  What's  the  good  of  making  people  gloomy? 
One  wants  the  pleasant  things  of  life,  Mr.  Naldrett, 
on  the  stage.  One  goes  to  the  theatre  to  be  amused. 
There's  enough  tragedy  in  real  life  without  one 
getting  more  in  the  theatre.  I  suppose  you've 
studied  Ibsen,  Mr.  Naldrett  ?  " 

"  Have  not  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  believe  in  him.  He  may  be  a  thmker 
and  all  that,  but  his  view  of  life  is  very  morbid. 
He  is  a  decadent.  Of  course,  they  say  his  technique 
is  very  fine.    But  he  has  a  mind  like  a  sewer." 

"  Quite  ready,  sir,"  said  the  chauffeur,  swinging 
himself  into  his  seat. 

"  I  must  wish  you  good-bye,  here,"  said  Roger  to 
the  interviewer.    "  Mind  your  coat.    It's  caught  in 

60 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

the  door.  Mind  you  thank  your  editor."  The  cab 
snorted  off,  honking.  The  interviewer  gazed  after  it. 
"  H'm,"  he  said,  with  that  httle  cynical  nod  with 
which  the  uninteUigent  express  comprehension. 
"  So  that's  the  new  drama,  is  it  ?  " 

The  car  reached  Trafalgar  Square  without  being 
stopped  by  the  traffic.  St.  Martin's  clock  stood  at 
a  few  minutes  to  ten.  Roger  was  in  the  dismal 
mood  of  one  who,  having  given  up  hope,  is  yet 
not  certain.  He  dropped  Pollock  at  the  Gallery, 
and  then  sped  on,  through  Leicester  Square,  up  a 
little  street  full  of  restaurants  and  French  book 
shops.  The  car  was  stopped  by  traffic  at  the  end 
of  this  street.  Roger  leapt  out,  paid  the  man 
hurriedly,  and  ran  into  the  Avenue.  Within  thirty 
seconds,  he  was  running  up  four  ffights  of  stairs  to 
the  door  on  which  he  had  knocked  in  his  vision. 

He  peered  through  the  glass  in  the  door.  As  in 
his  dream,  something  lay  in  the  passage  beyond, 
some  glove  or  handkerchief  or  crumpled  letter, 
with  a  shaft  of  sunlight  upon  it  from  an  open 
door.  No  one  came  to  open  to  him;  but  Roger, 
knocking  there,  was  conscious  of  the  presence  of 
Ottalie  by  him  and  in  him  ;  he  felt  her  brushing 
past  him,  a  rusthng,  breathing  beauty,  wearing  a 
great  hat,  and  those  old  pearl  earrings  which 
trembled  when  she  turned  her  head.  But  no 
Ottalie  came  to  the  door,  no  Agatha,  no  old  Mrs. 
Hicks  the  caretaker.  The  flat  was  empty.  After 
a  couple  of  minutes  of  knocking,  an  old,  untidy, 
red-faced  woman  came  out  from  the  flat  beneath, 
gasping  for  breath,  with  her  hand  against  her  side. 

"  No     use    your    knockin',"    she     said    crustily. 

6i 


MULTITUDE    AND    SOLITUDE 

"  They're  gawn  awy.   They  i'n't  'ere.   They're  gawn 
awy." 

"  When  did  they  go  ?  "  asked  Roger,  filled  sud- 
denly with  leaping  fire. 

"  They're  gawn  awy,"  repeated  the  old  woman. 
"  No  use  your  knockin'.  They're  gawn  awy." 
She  gasped  for  a  moment,  eyeing  Roger  with  sus- 
picion and  dislike  ;  then  turned  to  her  home  with 
the  slow,  uncertain,  fumbling  movements  of  one 
whose  heart  is  affected. 

Roger  was  left  alone  on  the  stairs,  aware  that  he 
had  come  too  late. 

The  stairs  were  covered  with  a  layer  of  sheet- 
lead.  When  the  old  woman  had  shut  her  door, 
Roger  grovelled  down  upon  them,  lighting  match 
after  match,  in  the  hope  of  finding  footmarks  which 
might  tell  him  more.  Agatha  had  rather  long  feet, 
Ottalie's  were  small,  but  very  well  proportioned.  Mrs. 
Hicks's  feet  were  disguised  by  the  boots  she  wore. 
A  scrap  of  brown  linoleum  on  the  stair-head  bore 
evident  marks  of  a  man's  hobnail  boots  which  had 
waited  there,  perhaps  for  an  answer.  There  were 
other,  non-committal  marks,  which  might  have 
been  made  by  anybody.  On  the  whole,  Roger 
fancied  that  a  woman  had  made  them,  when  going 
out,  with  dry  shoes,  that  morning.  The  problem 
now  was,  had  she  left  London  for  Ireland  or  for 
the  Continent  ?  With  some  misgivings,  he  decided 
against  Ireland.  On  former  occasions  she  had 
always  made  her  stay  in  London  after  her  visit  to 
the  Continent.  If  she  had  been  staying  in  London 
for  more  than  one  night,  she  would  have  written 
to  him  ;   he  would  have  seen  her.     As  she  had  not 

62 


MULTHUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

written  to  him,  she  was  plainly  going  abroad, 
probably  for  a  month  or  six  weeks,  after  resting 
for  one  night  on  the  way.  He  would  not  see  her 
till  the  middle  of  the  summer.  That  she  had  been 
in  town,  for  at  least  one  night,  was  plain  from  what 
the  woman  had  said.  The  thought  that  only  a  few 
hours  ago  she  had  passed  where  he  stood,  came 
home  to  him  like  her  touch  upon  him.  He  sat  down 
upon  the  stair-head  till  his  disappointment  was 
mastered. 

He  took  a  last  look  through  the  door-glass  at  the 
crumpled  thing,  glove,  letter,  or  handkerchief,  lying 
in  the  passage.  Then  he  went  out  into  the  avenue. 
The  disappointment  was  very  bitter  to  him.  It 
was  so  strong  an  emphasis  upon  the  prophetic 
quahty  of  his  dream.  OttaHe  had  been  there, 
waiting  for  him.  He  had  come  there  too  late. 
He  had  missed  her.  The  thought  that  he  had 
missed  her,  suggested  the  cause.  He  would  have  to 
go  back  to  Pollock.  He  could  not  leave  his  friend 
alone  in  that  wild  state  of  mind.  A  smaller  man 
would  perhaps  have  felt  resentment  against  the 
cause.  Roger  was  without  that  littleness.  He  saw 
only  the  tragic  irony.  He  saw  life  being  played 
upon  a  great  plan.  He  felt  himself  to  be  a  fine 
piece  set  aside  from  his  own  combination  by  one 
greater,  stronger,  more  wonderful.  It  seemed  very 
wonderful  that  he  had  been  kept  (so  unexpectedly) 
from  OttaHe,  by  the  one  thing  in  the  world  strong 
enough  so  to  keep  him.  Nothing  but  a  matter  of 
life  and  death  could  have  kept  him  from  her. 

A  lively  desire  sprang  up  in  him  to  know  whither 
she  had  gone.    This  (he  thought)  he  could  find  out, 

63 


MULTITUDE    AND    SOLITUDE 

without  difficulty,  from  a  Bradshaw.  I£  she  were 
going  to  Greece,  she  would  go  by  one  o£  two  ways. 
For  a  few  minutes  he  had  the  hope  that  she  might 
not  yet  have  left  London,  that  he  might  catch  her 
at  the  station.  A  Bradshaw  showed  him  that  this 
was  possible,  since,  going  by  one  route,  she  would 
not  have  to  start  till  after  seven  in  the  evening. 
But,  if  she  had  chosen  that  route,  why  should  she 
have  closed  the  flat  so  early  ?  He  saw  no  answer  to 
the  question.  Still,  the  uncertainty  preyed  upon 
him  and  flattered  him  at  the  same  time.  She  might 
be  there  at  seven.  He  would  go  to  the  station,  in 
any  case.  Would  it  were  seven  !  He  had  nine  hours 
to  live  through. 

He  walked  hurriedly  to  the  National  Gallery. 
He  remembered,  when  he  entered,  that  he  had 
made  no  rendezvous  with  Pollock.  He  expected 
to  find  him  before  the  Ariadne.  He  was  not  there. 
He  was  not  before  his  other  favourite,  The  Return 
of  Ulysses.  He  was  not  in  any  of  the  little  rooms 
opening  oft'  the  Italian  rooms.  A  hurried  walk 
round  all  the  foreign  schools  showed  that  Pollock 
was  not  in  that  part  of  the  Gallery  at  all.  Very  few 
people  were  in  the  Gallery  at  that  hour.  There 
could  be  no  mistake.  He  tried  the  English  rooms, 
without  success.  He  described  Pollock  to  the 
keepers  of  the  lower  stairs.  "  No,  sir.  No  one's 
gone  down  like  that."  Search  in  the  basement,  in 
the  little  rooms  where  the  Turner  water-colours 
and  Arundel  prints  are  kept,  showed  him  that 
Pollock  was  not  in  the  Gallery.  He  wished  to  be 
quite  certain.  He  made  a  swift  beat  of  the  French 
and  Spanish  rooms,  and  thence,  by  the  Dutch  and 

64 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLHUDE 

Flemish  schools,  to  the  Italian  rooms.  Here  he 
doubled  back  upon  his  tracks,  to  avoid  all  possibility 
of  mistake.  He  was  now  certain  Pollock  was  not 
in  the  Gallery.  Very  probably  he  had  never  entered 
it.    What  had  become  of  him  ? 

He  could  hardly  have  gone  to  the  Portrait  Gallery, 
he  thought.  Yet  it  was  possible.  Pollock  was  in  an 
excited  state  of  mind.  He  was  hardly  in  a  fit  state 
to  be  out  alone.  Roger  felt  anxious.  He  hurried 
to  the  Portrait  Gallery.  After  a  long  search,  up- 
stairs and  downstairs,  in  those  avenues  of  painted 
eyes,  he  decided  that  Pollock  was  not  there,  either. 
He  must  have  gone  to  Bondini's.  Suffolk  Street 
was  only  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away.  Roger  hurried 
on  to  look  for  him  at  Bondini's.  But  no.  He  was 
not  at  Bondini's.    Where,  then,  could  he  be  ? 

By  this  time,  Roger  was  alarmed  for  his  friend. 
He  thought  that  something  must  have  happened 
to  Kitty.  He  took  a  cab  to  Vincent  Square  to  make 
sure.  Pollock  let  him  in.  He  was  smoking  a  cigarette. 
His  bandage  gave  him  a  one-eyed  look,  infinitely 
depressing. 

"  I'm  sorry,  Roger,"  he  said  ;  "  I  couldn't  keep 
away  from  Kitty.  She's  quieter,  but  no  better. 
O  God,  Roger,  I  don't  know  how  men  can  be 
unkind  to  women.  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do 
without  her,  if  anything  happens  to  her." 

"  You  must  not  lose  heart,  like  this,"  Roger 
said.  "  I  understand,  very  well,  what  you  are 
feeling.  But  you  ought  not  to  expect  evil  in  this 
way.  Very,  very  few  cases  go  wrong,  now.  I  was 
afraid  that  something  had  happened  to  you.  Will 
you  come  to  my  rooms  for  a  game  of  chess  ?    Then 

F  65 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

we  could  lunch  together,  and  go  on,  perhaps,  to 
Henderson's.  He  has  finished  the  picture  he  was 
working  on." 

Pollock  was  not  to  be  tempted.  He  would  not 
leave  Kitty.  After  talking  with  him  for  nearly  an 
hour,  Roger  left  him,  promising  to  come  back  be- 
fore long,  to  enquire. 

When  he  got  outside,  into  the  street,  with  no 
definite,  immediate  object  to  occupy  his  mind,  he 
was  assailed  by  the  memories  of  his  succession  of 
mishaps.  He  could  not  say  that  one  of  them  hurt 
more  than  another.  The  loss  of  Ottalie,  following 
so  swiftly  on  the  dream,  made  him  miserable.  The 
destruction  of  his  play  by  the  critics  made  him 
feel  not  exactly  guilty,  but  unclean,  as  though  the 
rabble  had  spat  upon  him.  He  felt  "  unclean,"  in 
the  Levitical  sense.  He  had  some  hesitation  in 
going  to  mix  with  his  fellows. 

He  kept  saying  to  himself  that  if  he  were  not 
very  careful,  the  world  would  be  flooding  into  his 
mind,  trampling  its  garden  to  mud.  It  was  his 
duty  to  beat  back  the  world  before  it  fouled  his 
inner  vision.  If  he  were  not  very  careful  he  would 
find  that  his  next  work  would  be  tainted  with  some 
feverish  animosity,  some  personal  bitterness,  or 
weakness  of  contempt.  It  was  his  duty  as  a  man 
and  as  an  artist  to  prevent  that,  so  that  his  mind 
might  be  as  a  hedged  garden  full  of  flowers,  or  as 
a  clear,  unflawed  mirror,  reflecting  only  perfect 
images.  The  events  of  the  night  before  had  broken 
in  his  barriers.  He  felt  that  his  old  theory,  laid 
aside  long  before,  when  he  first  felt  the  fascination 
of   modern   artistic   methods,   was   true,   after   all ; 

66 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

that  the  right  pursuit  of  the  artist  was  the  practice 
of  Christianity.  He  found  in  the  National  Gallery, 
in  the  battle  picture  hy  Uccello,  in  the  nobleness 
of  that  young  knight,  riding  calmly  among  the 
spears,  a  healing  image  of  the  artist.  He  lingered 
before  that  divine  young  man  with  the  fair  hair 
until  one  o'clock.  He  passed  the  afternoon  at  a 
table  in  the  British  Museum,  reading  all  that  he 
could  find  about  Ottalie.  There  was  her  name  in 
full  in  the  Irish  Landed  Gentry.  There  were  the 
names  of  all  her  relatives,  and  the  names  of  their 
houses.  It  was  an  absurd  thing  to  read  these  entries, 
but  the  names  were  all  stimulants  to  memory.  He 
knew  these  people  and  places.  They  took  vivid 
shape  in  his  mind  as  he  read  them.  He  had  read 
them  before,  more  than  once,  when  the  craving 
for  her  had  been  bitter  in  the  past.  He  knew  the 
names  of  her  forebears  unto  the  third  and  fourth 
generation.  A  volume  of  Who^s  Who  gave  him 
details  of  her  living  relatives.  A  married  uncle's 
recreations  were  "  shooting  and  hunting."  A 
maiden  aunt  had  published  Songs  of  Quiet  Life,  in 
1902.  Her  older  brother,  Leslie  Fawcett,  had 
published  a  novel.  One  Summer,  in  1891.  Both 
these  volumes  lay  beside  him.  He  read  them  again, 
for  the  tenth  time.  Both  were  very  short  works ; 
and  both,  he  felt,  helped  him  to  understand  Ottalie. 
Neither  work  was  profound  ;  but  both  came  from 
a  sweet  and  noble  nature,  at  once  charming  and 
firm.  There  were  passages  in  the  songs  which  were 
like  Ottalie's  inner  nature  speaking.  In  the  novel, 
in  the  chapter  on  a  girl,  he  thought  that  he  recog- 
nized Ottalie  as  she  must  have  been  long  ago. 

67 


MULTHUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

The  volume  of  the  Landed  Gentry  gave  him  pity 
for  the  historian  who  would  come  a  century  hence,  to 
grub  up  facts  for  his  history.  Ottalie,  dear,  breath- 
ing, beautiful  woman,  witty,  and  lovely-haired,  and 
noble  like  a  lady  in  a  poem,  would  be  to  such  a 
one  "  3rd  dau.,"  or,  perhaps,  mere  "  issue." 

At  five  o'clock,  he  put  away  his  books.  He  went 
to  drink  tea  at  a  dairy,  in  High  Holborn.  He 
entered  the  place  with  some  misgivings,  for  his 
two  emotions  made  the  world  distasteful  to  him. 
The  memory  of  the  night  before  made  him  feel 
that  he  had  been  whipped  in  public.  The  thought 
of  Ottalie  made  him  feel  that  the  real  world  was 
in  his  brain.  He  shrank  from  meeting  anybody 
known  to  him.  That  old  feeling  of  "  uncleanness  " 
came  strongly  over  him.  The  stuffy  unquiet  of  the 
Museum  had  at  least  been  filled  by  preoccupied, 
selfish  people.  Here  in  the  tea  -  shop,  everybody 
stared.  All  the  little  uncomfortable  tables  were 
peopled  by  pairs  of  eyes.  He  felt  that  a  woman 
giggled,  that  a  young  man  nudged  his  fellow. 
Stepping  back  to  let  a  waitress  pass,  he  knocked  over 
a  chair.  The  place  was  cramped  ;  he  felt  stupidly 
awkward  and  uncomfortable.  He  blushed  as  he 
picked  up  the  chair.  Everybody  stared.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  they  were  saying,  "  That  is  Mr.  Nal- 
drett,  the  author  of  the  piece  which  was  booed  off 
last  night.  They  say  it's  very  immoral.  Millie  was 
there.  She  said  it  was  a  silly  lot  of  old-fashioned 
stuff.  What  funny  eyes  he's  got.  And  look  at  the 
way  he  puts  his  feet." 

He  sat  down  in  a  corner,  from  which  he  could 
survey  the  room.    A  paper  lay  upon  the  table  ;   he 

68 


MULTITUDE   AND   SOLITUDE 

picked  it  up  abstractedly.  It  was  a  copy  of  The 
Post  Meridian.  Somebody  had  rested  butter  upon 
the  upper  part  of  it.  He  glanced  at  it  for  an  instant, 
just  long  enough  to  see  a  leading  article  below 
the  grease  mark.  "  Drama  and  Decency,"  ran  the 
scarehead.  It  went  on  to  say  that  the  London 
public  had  once  again  shewn  its  unerring  sense  of 
the  fitness  of  things  over  Mr.  Naldrett's  play.  He 
dropped  the  paper  to  one  side,  and  wiped  the 
hand  which  had  touched  it.  He  felt  beaten  to 
bay.  He  stared  forward  at  the  house  so  fiercely 
that  a  timid  lady,  of  middle  age  and  ill-health, 
possibly  as  beaten  as  himself,  turned  from  the  chair 
opposite  before  she  sat  down. 

There  were  no  friends  of  his  there,  except  a  red- 
haired,  fierce  little  poet,  who  sat  close  by,  reading 
and  eating  cake.  The  yellow  back  of  Les  Fleurs 
du  Mai  was  propped  against  his  teapot.  He  bit  so 
fiercely  that  his  beard  wagged  at  each  bite.  Some- 
thing of  the  fierceness  and  passion  of  the  Femmes 
Dam?iees,  or  of  le  vin  de  VAssassiji,  was  wreaked  upon 
the  cake.  There  came  a  muttering  among  the  bites. 
The  man  was  almost  reading  aloud.  A  memory  of 
Baudelaire  came  to  Roger,  a  few  grand  melancholy 
lines  : — 

"  La  servante  au  grand  coeur  dont  vous  etiez  jalouse, 
Et  qui  dort  sans  sommeil  sous  une  humble  pelouse, 
Nous  devrions  pourtant  lui  porter  quelques  fleurs. 
Les  morts,  les  pauvres  niorts,  ont  de  grandes  douleurs, 
Et  quand  Octobre  souffle,  emondeur  des  vieux  arbres, 
Son  vent  melancollque  a  I'entour  de  leurs  marbres, 
Certe,  ils  doivent  trouver  les  vivants  bien  ingrats." 

He  wondered  if  it  would  be  like  that.  A  waitress 
brought  him  tea  and  toast.     He  poured  a  little  tea 

69 


MULTITUDE    AND    SOLITUDE 

into  his  cup,  thinking  of  a  man  now  dead,  who  had 
drunk  tea  there  with  him  a  year  ago.  One  was 
very  callous  about  the  dead.  He  wondered  if  the 
dead  were  callous  about  the  living,  or  whether  they 
had  of  grandes  douleurs,  as  the  poet  thought.  He  felt 
that  he  would  not  mind  being  dead,  but  for  OttaUe. 
He  wondered  whether  Ottalie  had  read  the  papers. 
He  buttered  some  toast  and  laid  it  to  one  side  of 
his  plate,  a  sort  of  burnt  offering  to  the  dead.  A 
line  on  the  bill  of  fare  caught  his  eye.  "  Pan-Bos. 
Our  new  Health  Bread.  Per  Portion,  2d."  His  tired 
mind  turned  it  backwards,  ".d2  ,noitroP  reP  daerB." 
"  I  am  going  mad,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  Shall  I 
go  to  Ireland  to-night  ?  " 

Something  warned  him  that  if  he  went  to  Ireland, 
Ottahe  would  not  be  there.  With  Ottahe  away,  it 
would  be  intolerable.  There  would  be  her  house, 
up  on  the  hills,  and  all  those  sycamores,  Hke  ghosts 
in  the  twilight,  ghosts  of  old  men  brooding  on  her 
beauty,  like  the  old  men  in  Troy  when  Helen 
passed.  No.  He  could  not  bear  Ireland  with  her 
away.  He  thought  of  the  boat-train  with  regret 
for  the  old  jolly  jaunts.  The  guard  with  a 
Scotch  accent,  the  carriage  in  front  which  went 
on  to  Dundee,  the  sound  of  the  beautiful  Irish 
voice  ("  voce  assai  piu  che  la  nostra  viva  "),  and 
then  the  hiring  of  rug  and  pillow,  knowing  that  one 
would  wake  in  Scotland,  among  hills,  running 
water,  a  "  stately  speech,"  and  pure  air.  It  would 
not  be  wise  to  go  to  Ireland.  If  he  went  now,  with 
Ottahe  away,  he  might  not  be  able  to  go  later,  when 
she  would  be  there.  It  would  be  nothing  without 
her.     Nothing  but  lonely  reading,  writing,  walking, 

70 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

and  swimming.  It  would  be  better  not  to  go. 
Here  the  poet  gulped  his  cake,  rose,  and  advanced 
on  Roger. 

"  How  d'you  do  ?  "  he  said,  speaking  rapidly,  as 
though  his  words  were  playing  tag.  "  I've  just 
been  talking  to  Collins  about  you.  He's  been  tell- 
ing me  about  your  play.  I  hear  you  had  a  row,  or 
something." 

"  Yes.    There  was  a  row." 

"  Collins  has  been  going  for  you  in  The  Daystar. 
He  says  you  haven't  read  Aristotle,  or  something. 
Have  you  seen  his  article  ?  " 

"  No.     I  haven't  seen  it." 

"  Oh,  you  ought  to  read  it.  Parts  o£  it  are  very 
witty.     It  would  cheer  you  up." 

"  What  does  he  say  ?  " 

"  He  says  that Oh,  you  know  what  Collins 

says.     He  says  that  you — I  believe  I've  got  it  on 
me.    I  cut  it  out.    Where  did  I  put  it  ?  " 

"  Never  mind.     I'm  not  interested  in  Collins." 

"  Aren't  you  ?  He's  very  good.  I  suppose  your 
play'U  be  produced  again  later  ?  " 

"  I  think  not." 

He  got  rid  of  the  poet,  paid  his  bill,  and  walked 
out.  Outside  he  ran  into  Hollins,  the  critic  of  The 
Week.  He  would  have  avoided  Hollins,  but  Hollins 
stopped  him. 

"  Ah,  Naldrett,"  he  said,  "  I've  just  been  going 
for  you  in  The  Week.  What  do  you  mean  by  that 
third  act  ?     Really.     It  really  was " 

It  gave  Roger  a  kind  of  awe  to  think  that  this 
man  had  been  damning  other  people's  acts  before 
he  was  born. 

71 


MULTHUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

"  What  was  wrong  with  the  third  act  ?  You 
didn't  hear  it." 

"  You  must  read  M.  Capus,"  said  HolHns,  passing 
on.    "  I  shall  go  for  you  until  you  do." 

A  newsboy,  with  a  voice  like  a  bird  of  doom, 
flying  in  the  night,  held  a  coloured  bill.  "  Drama 
and  Decency,"  ran  the  big  letters.  Another,  offer- 
ing a  copy,  shewed,  as  allurement,  "  ^ceful  Fracas.^^ 
The  whole  town  seemed  angry  with  him.  He 
crossed  into  Seven  Dials,  and  along  to  St.  Martin's 
Lane,  where  he  knew  of  a  quiet  reading-room. 
Here  he  hid. 


72 


IV 


There's  hope  left  yet. 

The  Virgin  Martyr 


AT  seven  o'clock  he  went  to  the  station,  hoping 
(against  his  better  judgment)  that  he  might 
see  Ottahe  at  the  train.  The  train  was  very  crowded. 
The  travellers  wore  the  pleased,  expectant  look 
with  which  one  leaves  an  English  city.  Ottalie  was 
not  among  them.  He  went  down  the  train  twice, 
in  opposite  directions,  without  success.  She  was 
not  there.  She  must  have  started  that  morning. 
He  had  missed  her. 

He  sat  down  on  one  of  the  station  benches.  His 
world  seemed  slipping  from  him.  He  told  himself 
that  to-morrow  he  would  have  to  work,  or  all  these 
worries  would  destroy  him.  He  felt  more  lonely  than 
he  had  ever  felt  in  his  life.  A  week  before,  he  would 
have  had  O'Neill,  Pollock,  and  another  friend,  now 
abroad.  O'Neill  was  gone,  without  a  farewell. 
Pollock  was  fighting  his  own  battles,  with  poor 
success.  Ottalie  was  thundering  across  France,  or, 
perhaps,  just  drawing  into  Paris. 

A  longing  to  see  someone  drove  him  out  of  the 
station.  He  walked  to  Soho,  to  a  Spanish  restaurant, 
where  some  of  his  friends  sometimes  dined. 

Here,  at  night,  the  curious  may  visit  Spain, 
and  hear  the  guttural,  lisping  speech,  and   munch 


MUMHUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

upon  chuletas,  and  swallow  all  manner  of  strange- 
ness in  cazuelas.  Very  bold  young  men  cry 
aloud  there  for  "  Mozo,"  lisping  the  z.  The 
less  bold  signal  with  the  hand.  The  timid 
point,  and  later,  eat  that  which  is  set  before 
them,  asking  no  question,  obeying  Holy  Writ, 
though  without  spiritual  profit. 

On  entering  the  place,  he  bowed  to  the  Scotch- 
looking,  heavily-earringed  Spanish  woman,  who  sat 
at  the  desk  reading  Blanco  y  Negro.  She  gave  him 
a  "  Buenas  tardes,"  without  lifting  her  eyes.  Then 
came,  from  his  right,  a  cry  of  "  Naldrett !  " 

Two  painters,  a  poet,  and  proportionable  woman- 
kind, were  dining  together  there,  over  the  evening 
papers. 

"  How  are  you  ?  "  said  one  of  the  painters. 
"  We've  just  been  reading  about  you,"  said  the 
other. 

"  Reading  the  most  terrible  things,"  said  the 
poet. 

"  Shew  him  The  Orb.    The  Orb's  the  best." 
"  No.    Shew  him  The  Planet.    The  one  who  says 
he  ought  to  be  prosecuted." 

Roger,  refusing  Orb  and  Planet,  shook  hands  with 
one  of  the  ladies.  She  was  a  Uttle  actress,  deUcate, 
fragile,  almost  inhuman,  with  charm  in  all  she  did. 
She  said  that  she  had  been  reading  his  book  of  The 
Handful,  and  had  found  it  very  "  interesting." 
She  wanted  Roger  to  come  to  tea,  to  talk  over  a 
scheme  of  hers.  It  dawned  on  Roger  that  she  was 
saving  him  from  his  friends. 

"  You're  the  man  of  the  moment,"  said  the 
poet. 

74 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

"  Don't  you  pay  any  attention  to  any  of  them," 
said  the  painter  who  had  first  spoken.  "  You  may 
be  quite  sure  that  when  one  has  to  say  a  thing  in  a 
hurry,  as  these  critics  must,  one  says  the  easiest 
thing,  and  the  thing  which  comes  handiest  to  say. 
If  I  paid  attention  to  all  they  say  about  me  I  should 
be  in  a  lunatic  asylum.  Besides,  what  does  it 
matter  what  they  say  ?  Who  are  they,  when  all  is 
said  ?  " 

The  talk  drifted  into  a  wit  combat,  in  which  the 
seven  set  themselves  to  define  a  critic  with  the 
greatest  possible  pungency  and  precision.  Having 
done  this,  to  their  own  satisfaction,  they  set  them- 
selves to  the  making  of  a  composite  sonnet  on  the 
critic,  upon  the  backs  of  bills  of  fare.  One  of  the 
painters  drew  an  ideal  critic,  in  the  manners,  now 
of  Tintoret,  now  of  Velasquez,  now  of  Watteau. 
The  other,  who  complained  that  old  masters  ought 
to  be  ranked  with  critics,  because  they  spoiled  the 
market  for  living  painters,  drew  him  in  the  manner 
of  Rops. 

After  dinner,  Roger  walked  home  by  a  round- 
about road,  which  took  him  past  his  theatre.  A 
few  people  hung  about  outside  it,  staring  idly  at  a 
few  others  who  were  entering.  His  play  was  still 
running,  it  seemed,  in  spite  of  the  trouble.  Falem- 
pin  was  brave. 

He  walked  back  to  his  rooms,  wondering  why  he 
had  not  gone  to  Ireland  that  night.  London  op- 
pressed and  pained  him.  He  thought  it  an  ugly 
city,  full  of  ugly  life.  He  was  without  any  desire 
to  be  a  citizen  of  such  a  city.  He  disliked  the  place 
and  her  people  ;    but  to-night,   being,  perhaps,  a 

75 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

little  humbled  by  his  misfortunes,  he  found  him- 
self wondering  whether  all  the  squalor  of  the  town, 
its  beastly  drinking  dens,  its  mobs  of  brainless, 
inquisitive  shouters,  might  not  be  changed  suddenly 
to  beauty  and  noble  life  by  some  sudden  general 
inspiration,  such  as  comes  to  nations  at  rare  times 
under  suffering.  He  decided  against  it.  Patience 
under  suffering  was  hardly  one  of  our  traits. 

On  his  sitting-room  table  was  a  letter  from 
Ottalie,  bearing  the  London  post-mark  across  the 
Greek  stamps,  and  underneath  them  the  legend, 
"  2d.  to  pay."  By  the  date  on  the  letter  it  had 
been  ten  days  in  getting  to  him.  He  opened  it 
eagerly,  half  expecting  to  find  in  it  the  very  letter 
of  the  dream,  though  something  told  him  that  the 
dream-letter  had  contained  her  essential  thoughts, 
the  letter  in  his  hand  the  worldly  covering  of  those 
thoughts,  translated  into  earthly  speech  with  its 
reservations  and  half-heartedness.  He  learned  from 
this  letter  that  she  had  been  for  a  month  in  Greece, 
and  was  now  coming  home.  She  would  be  for 
four  days,  from  the  7th  to  the  iith,  at  her  flat 
in  London.  She  hoped  to  see  him  there,  before 
she  returned  to  Ireland.  To  his  amazement  the 
postscript  ran  :  "  I  have  read  your  last  book.  It 
reads  like  the  diary  of  a  lost  soul,"  the  very  words 
seen  by  him  in  dream.  For  the  moment  this  did 
not  move  him  so  deeply  as  the  thought  that  this  was 
the  nth  of  the  month.  She  had  been  in  London 
with  him  for  the  last  three  or  four  days,  and  he 
had  never  known  it.  He  had  seen  her  light  blown 
out  the  night  before.  If  he  had  had  a  little  sense 
he  would  have  called  on  her  early  that   morning, 

76 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

before  he  had  breakfasted.  Had  he  done  so,  he 
would  have  seen  her,  he  would  have  driven  with 
her  to  the  station,  he  could,  perhaps,  have  travelled 
with  her  to  Ireland.  The  bitterness  of  his  disap- 
pointment made  him  think,  for  a  moment,  meanly 
of  Agatha,  who,  in  his  fancy,  had  kept  them  apart. 
He  suspected  that  Agatha  had  held  back  the  letter. 
How  else  could  it  have  been  posted  in  London  with 
Greek  stamps  upon  it  ? 

Then  came  the  thought  that  she  had  not  gone 
to  Ireland  that  morning.  He  had  never  known  her 
.go  back  to  Ireland  by  the  day-boats.  She  liked  to 
sleep  in  the  train,  and  save  the  daylight  for  life. 
His  knowledge  of  her  told  him  what  had  happened. 
She  had  taken  her  luggage  to  the  station,  soon  after 
breakfast.  Having  done  this,  she  had  passed  the 
day  in  amusement,  dined  at  the  station  hotel,  and 
now 

He  sat  down,  beaten  by  this  last  disappointment. 
Now  she  was  steaming  north  in  the  night  express 
to  Port  Patrick.  She  had  only  just  gone.  She 
was  within  a  dozen  miles  of  him.  The  train  did  not 
start  till  eight.  It  was  now  only  fourteen  minutes 
past.  If  he  had  not  been  a  fool ;  if  he  had  only 
come  home  instead  of  going  to  the  station ! 

"  Selina,"  he  cried  down  to  the  basement,  "  when 
did  this  letter  come  ?  This  letter  with  the  foreign 
stamp." 

"  Just  after  you'd  gone  out  this  morning,  sir." 

Five  minutes'  patience  would  have  altered  his 
life. 

"  A  lady  come  to  see  you,  sir." 

"  What  was  her  name  ?  " 

77 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 


"  She  didn't  leave  a  name,  sir 

"  What  was  she  hke  ?    When  did  she  come  ? 

"  She  came  about  a  few  minutes  before  nine,  sir. 
She  seemed  very  put  out  at  not  finding  you." 

"  Had  she  been  here  before  ?  " 

"  I  think  she  was  the  lady  come  here  one  time 
with  another  lady,  a  dark  lady,  when  you  'ad  the 
suite  upstairs,  sir.  I  think  she  come  in  one  evenin' 
when  you  read  to  them." 

OttaUe  had  been  there.  It  must  have  been 
Ottahe. 

"  I  told  her  you  was  gone  awy,  sir.  You  'adn't 
said  where  to." 

He  thanked  Sehna.  He  bit  his  lips  lest  he  should 
ask  whether  the  visitor  had  worn  earrings.  He  went 
back  into  his  room  and  sat  down.  He  had  not 
reaUzed  till  then  how  much  OttaUe  meant  to  him. 
A  voice  rang  in  his  brain  that  he  had  missed  her, 
missed  her  by  a  few  minutes,  through  his  own  im- 
patience, through  some  chance,  through  some 
jugghng  against  him  of  the  powers  outside  life. 
All  his  misery  seemed  rolled  into  a  leaden  ball, 
which  was  smashing  through  his  brain.  The  play 
was  a  little  thing.  The  loss  of  John  was  a  little 
thing.  Templeton  was  farcical,  the  critics  were 
little  gnats,  but  to  have  missed  Ottalie,  to  have 
lost  Ottalie !     He  tasted  a  moment  of  despair. 

Despair  does  not  last  long.  It  kills,  or  it  goads  to 
action.  With  Roger  it  lasted  for  a  few  seconds, 
and  then  changed  to  a  passion  to  be  on  the  way  to 
her.  But  he  would  have  to  wait,  he  would  have  to 
wait.  There  were  all  those  interminable  hours  to 
wait.    All  a  whole  night  of  purgatory.    What  could 

78 


MULTHUDE    AND    SOLITUDE 

he  do  meanwhile  ?  How  could  he  pass  that  night  ? 
What  could  he  do  ?  Work  was  impossible.  Talk 
was  impossible.  He  remembered  then,  another 
thing. 

He  opened  his  Bradshaw  feverishly.  Yes.  There 
was  another  boat-train  to  Holyhead.  He  could  be 
in  Dublin  a  little  after  dawn  the  next  day  ;  "  8-45 
from  Euston."  He  could  just  do  it.  He  would 
catch  that  second  boat-train.  It  was  a  bare  chance  ; 
but  it  could  be  done.  He  could  be  with  Ottalie 
by  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day.  But  money  ;  he 
had  not  enough  money.  Five  minutes  to  pack.  He 
could  spare  that ;  but  how  about  money  ?  To 
whom  could  he  go  for  money  ?  Who  would  have 
money  to  lend  upon  the  instant  ?  It  would  have 
to  be  someone  near  at  hand.  Every  second  made 
his  task  harder.  Where  would  there  be  a  cab  ? 
Which  of  his  friends  lived  on  the  way  to  Euston  ? 
Who  lives  between  Westminster  and  Euston  ?  It 
is  all  park,  and  slum,  and  boarding-house.  Big  Ben, 
lifting  his  voice,  intoned  the  quarter. 

He  caught  a  cab  outside  Dean's  Yard.  He  drove 
to  a  friend  in  Thames  Chambers.  The  friend  lent 
him  a  sovereign  and  some  loose  silver.  He  had 
enough  now  to  take  him  to  Ireland.  He  bade  the 
cabman  to  hurry.  The  newsboys  were  busy  in  the 
Strand.  They  were  calling  out  something  about 
winner,  and  disaster.  He  saw  one  newsbill  flutter 
out  from  a  man's  hand.  "  British  Liner  Lost,"  ran 
the  heading.  He  felt  relieved  that  the  monkey- 
mind  had  now  something  new  to  occupy  it.  The 
changing  of  the  newsbill  heading  made  him  feel 
cleaner. 

79 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

Up  to  the  crossing  of  Holborn,  he  felt  that  he 
would  catch  the  train.  At  Holborn  the  way  was 
barred  by  traffic.  The  Euston  Road  was  also  barred 
to  him.  He  missed  the  train  by  rather  more  than 
a  minute.  He  was  too  tired  to  feel  more  disap- 
pointment. The  best  thing  for  him  to  do,  he 
thought,  would  be  to  sleep  at  home,  catch  the  boat- 
train  in  the  morning  and  travel  all  day.  That  plan 
would  land  him  in  Ireland  within  twenty-four  hours. 
He  could  then  either  stay  a  night  in  port,  or  post  the 
forty  miles  to  his  cottage.  In  any  case,  he  would  be 
with  Ottalie,  actually  in  her  very  presence,  within 
forty  hours.  By  posting  the  forty  miles  he  might 
watch  the  next  night  outside  her  window,  in  the  deep 
peace  of  the  Irish  country,  almost  within  sound  of 
the  sea.  The  thought  of  the  great  stars  sweeping 
over  Ottalie's  home,  and  of  the  moon  coming  up, 
filling  the  valley,  and  of  the  little  wind  which  trem- 
bled the  leaves,  giving,  as  it  were,  speech  to  the 
beauty  of  the  night,  moved  him  intensely.  In  his 
overwrought  mood,  these  things  were  the  only  real 
things.    The  rest  was  all  nightmare. 

Driving  back  from  Euston,  he  noticed  another 
affiche,  bearing  the  words,  "  Steamer  Sunk.  Lives 
Lost."  He  paid  no  attention  to  it.  He  wondered 
vaguely,  as  he  had  often  wondered  in  the  past,  what 
kind  of  a  mind  browsed  upon  these  things.  A 
disaster,  an  attack  upon  the  Government,  and  a 
column  of  betting  news.  That  was  what  God's 
image  brooded  upon,  night  after  night.  That  was 
what  God's  image  wrote  about  nightly,  after  an 
expensive  education. 

He  was  very  tired  ;    but  there  could  be  no  rest 

80 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

for  him  till  he  had  enquired  after  Mrs.  Pollock.  She 
had  given  birth  to  a  little  girl,  who  was  likely  to 
live.  She  herself  was  very  weak,  but  not  in  serious 
danger.  Pollock  was  making  good  resolutions  in  a 
mist  of  cigarette  smoke.  Roger  was  not  wanted 
there.  He  went  home,  to  bed,  tired  out.  He  slept 
heavily. 

He  was  fresh  and  merry  the  next  morning.  He 
packed  at  leisure,  breakfasted  at  ease,  and  drove  away 
to  the  station,  feeling  like  a  boy  upon  a  holiday. 
He  was  leaving  this  grimy,  gritty  wilderness.  He 
was  going  to  forget  all  about  it.  In  a  few  hours  he 
would  be  over  the  border,  in  a  new  land.  That 
night  he  would  be  over  the  sea,  so  changed,  and  in 
a  land  so  different,  that  all  this  would  seem  like  a 
horrid,  far-away  dream,  indescribably  squalid  and 
useless.  London  was  a  strong,  poisonous  drug,  to 
be  taken  in  minute  doses.  He  was  going  to  take  a 
strong  corrective. 

The  train  journey  was  long  and  slow ;  but  after 
Carlisle  was  passed,  his  mind  began  to  feel  the  ex- 
citement of  it.  In  a  couple  of  hours  he  would  be 
in  the  steamer,  standing  well  forward,  watching 
for  the  double  lights  to  flash,  and  the  third  hght, 
further  to  the  south,  to  blink  and  gleam.  The 
dull,  low,  Scottish  landscape,  where  Burns  lived 
and  Keats  tramped,  gave  way  to  irregular  low  hills, 
indescribably  lonely,  with  boggy  lowland  beneath 
them  and  forlorn  pools.  He  looked  out  for  one 
such  pool.  He  had  often  noticed  it  before,  on  his 
journeys  that  way.  It  was  a  familiar  landmark  to 
him.  Like  all  the  rest  of  that  Scottish  land,  it  was 
associated  in  his  mind  with  OttaUe.    All  the  journey 

G  8x 


MULTHUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

was  associated  with  her.  He  had  travelled  past  those 
hills  and  pools  so  often,  only  to  see  her,  that  they 
had  become  a  sort  of  ritual  to  him,  a  part  of  seeing 
her,  something  which  inevitably  led  to  her.  After 
the  hill  with  the  cairn,  he  saw  his  landmark.  There 
glittered  the  pool  under  the  last  of  the  sun.  The 
little  lonely  island,  not  big  enough  for  a  peel,  but 
big  enough,  years  ago,  for  a  lake-dwelling,  shone 
out  in  a  glimmer  of  withered  grass.  A  few  bents, 
bristling  the  shallows,  bowed  and  bowed  and  bowed 
as  the  wind  blew,  A  reef  of  black  rocks  glided  out 
at  the  pool's  end,  like  an  eel  swimming.  Roger 
again  had  the  fancy,  which  had  risen  in  his  mind 
before  a  dozen  times,  when  passing  the  pool,  that 
he  would  like  to  be  a  boy  there,  with  a  toy  boat. 
Another  landmark  tenderly  looked  for,  was  a  little 
white  house  rather  far  from  the  line,  high  up  on 
the  moor.  He  had  once  thought  (in  passing)  that 
that  would  be  a  pleasant  place  for  a  week's  stay 
when  he  and  Ottalie  were  married.  The  tenderness 
of  the  original  fancy  lingered  still.  It  had  become 
an  inevitable  part  of  the  journey.  After  a  few 
minutes  of  looking,  it  came  into  view,  newly  white- 
washed, or,  it  may  be,  merely  very  bright  in  the 
sunset.  A  woman  stood  at  a  little  garden  gate. 
He  had  seen  her  there  once  before.  Perhaps  she 
looked  out  for  this  evening  train.  It  might  be  an 
event  in  her  life.  She  must  be  very  lonely  there, 
so  many  miles  from  anywhere.  After  this,  he  saw 
only  one  more  landmark,  a  copse  of  spruce-fir  by  the 
line.  A  faint  mist  was  gathering.  There  was  going 
to  be  a  fog.  The  boat  would  make  a  slow  passage. 
The  mist  was  dim  over  everything  when  the  train 

82 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

stopped.  He  got  out  on  to  a  platform  which  was 
wet  with  mist.  Wet  milk-cans  gleamed.  Rails  shone 
below  his  feet.  A  bulk  of  a  mail-train  rose  up, 
vacant  and  dim.  People  shouted  and  passed.  There 
was  a  hot  whiff  of  ship's  engine.  A  man  passed, 
with  nervous  hurry,  carrying  two  teacups  from  the 
refreshment-room.  Somebody  cried  out  to  come 
along  with  the  mails.  An  Irish  voice  answered 
excitedly,  with  a  witty  bitterness  which  defined  the 
owner  to  Roger,  in  vivid  outline.  Mist  came  driving 
down  under  the  shed.  A  few  moist  steps  took  him 
to  a  rail  of  chains,  beyond  which  was  motionless  sea, 
a  dim,  grey-brown  under  the  mist,  with  a  gull  or 
two  drifting  and  falling.  A  row  of  lights  dimly 
dying  away  beyond,  shewed  him  the  steamer.  The 
gangway  slanted  down,  dripping  wet  from  the 
handrail.  A  man  was  saying  that  "  Indeed,  it 
was,"  in  the  curt,  charming  accent  of  the  hills. 

He  did  not  recognize  the  steamer.  Her  name, 
seen  upon  a  life-belt,  was  new  to  him.  He  did  not 
remember  a  Lady  of  Lyons  on  this  line.  He  laid 
his  bag  in  a  corner  of  the  saloon,  where  already 
timid  ladies  were  preparing  for  the  worst,  by  lying 
down,  under  rugs,  with  bottles  of  salts  at  hand.  The 
smell  of  the  saloon,  the  smells  of  disinfectant,  oil, 
rubber,  and  food,  mixed  with  the  sickliness  of  a 
place  half  aired  and  over-heated,  drove  him  on 
deck  again.  An  elderly  man  was  telling  his  wife 
that  it  had  been  a  terrible  business.  The  lady 
answered  with  the  hope  that  nothing  would  happen 
to  them,  for  what  would  poor  Edie  do  ? 

Somebody  near  the  gangway,  a  hills-man  by  his 
speech,  probably  the  ticket-collector,  or  mate,  was 

83 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

speaking  in  the  intervals  of  work.  He  was  checking 
the  slinging-in  of  crates,  and  talking  to  an  acquaint- 
ance. Roger  had  no  wish  to  hear  him.  He  was 
impatient  for  the  ship  to  start.  But  sitting  down 
there,  wrapped  in  his  macintosh,  he  could  not  help 
overhearing  odds  and  ends  of  a  story  among  the 
clack  of  the  winches.  Something  terrible  had  hap- 
pened, and  Tom  would  know  about  it,  and,  in- 
deed, it  was  a  sad  thing  for  the  widow  O'Hara  ;  but 
it  was  a  quick  death,  anyway,  and  might  come  on 
any  man,  for  the  matter  of  that.  Indeed,  it  was  a 
quick  death,  and  the  fault  lay  in  these  fogs,  which 
never  gave  a  man  a  chance  till  she  was  right  on  top 
of  you.  What  use  were  sidelights,  when  a  fog  might 
make  a  headlight  as  red  as  blood  ?  She  had  come 
right  into  her,  just  abaft  the  bridge,  and  cut  her 
clean  down.  They  never  saw  a  stim  of  her.  She 
wasn't  even  sounding  her  horn.  Yes.  One  of  these 
big  five-masted  Yankee  schooners.  The  John  P. 
Graves.  Just  out  of  Glasgow.  They  hadn't  even 
a  look-out  set.  Taking  her  chance.  Her  crowd 
was  drunk.  And  one  of  the  dead  was  an  English 
wumman  only  married  that  morning.  No.  The 
man  was  saved.  Like  a  stunned  man.  The  most  of 
the  bodies  was  ashore  to  the  wast  of  the  light.  There 
was  a  fierce  jobble  wast  of  the  light. 

There  had  been  a  collision  somewhere.  There 
were  always  being  collisions.  Roger  listened,  and 
ceased  to  listen,  thinking  of  that  "  Steamer  Sunk, 
Lives  Lost  "  on  the  London  placard.  He  thought 
that  these  vivid,  picturesque  talkers,  professional 
men,  but  full  of  feeling,  gave  such  an  event  a  kind 
of  poetry,  and  made  it  a  part  of  their  lives,  while 

84 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

the  paper-reader,  very  far  away  in  the  city,  glanced 
at  it,  among  a  dozen  similar  events,  none  of  them 
closely  brought  home  to  him,  or,  indeed,  to  be 
understood  by  him,  and  dismissed  the  matter  with 
an  indifferent  "  Really.  How  ghastly !  "  He  re- 
proved himself  for  thinking  thus.  This  collision 
had  affected  the  men  near  him  in  their  daily  business. 
Londoners  were  affected  by  disasters  which  touched 
themselves.  This  disaster,  whatever  it  was,  did  not 
touch  him.  He  was  in  a  contrary,  bitter  mood, 
too  much  occupied  with  himself  to  feel  for  others. 
He  was  thinking  that  the  men  who  did  most  were 
self-centred  men,  shut  away  from  the  world  with- 
out. A  snail,  suddenly  stung  on  the  tender  horn, 
may  think  similarly. 

It  was  dark  night,  but  clear  enough,  when  they 
reached  Ireland.  The  lights  in  the  bay  shone  as 
before.  The  lights  on  the  island  had  not  changed. 
One,  high  up,  which  he  had  often  noticed,  was  as 
like  a  star  as  ever.  Little  glimmers  of  light  danced 
before  him,  as  he  dined  in  the  hotel,  attended  by 
a  grave  old  waiter.  The  hotel  was  fuller  than  usual 
at  that  time  of  year.  It  was  full  of  restless,  anxious, 
sad-looking  people,  some  of  whom  had  been  with 
him  in  the  boat.  They  gave  him  the  fancy  that 
they  had  all  come  over  for  a  funeral.  After  supping, 
he  went  hurriedly  to  bed. 

In  the  morning,  at  breakfast,  there  were  the  same 
sad-looking  people.  They  sat  at  the  next  table, 
talking  in  subdued  voices,  drinking  tea.  They  were 
breakfasting  on  tea.  An  old  woman  with  that 
hard,  commercial  face,  assumed  by  predatory 
natures  without  energy,  mothered  the  party.     Her 

85 


MUMHUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

red  eyes,  swollen  by  weeping,  emphasized  the 
vulpine  in  her.  A  late-comer  rustled  up.  "  Alice 
won't  come  down,"  she  said.  "  She'll  have  some 
tea  upstairs." 

The  old  woman,  calHng  a  maid,  sent  tea  to  Alice. 
A  pale  girl,  daughter  to  the  matron  in  all  but  spirit, 
snuffled  on  the  perilous  brink,  worn  out  by  grief 
and  weariness.  The  old  woman  rebuked  her.  "  We 
shall  have  to  be  starting  in  a  minute."  She  had 
that  cast-iron  nature  limited  to  itself.  Roger  won- 
dered whether  in  old  Rome,  or  Puritan  England, 
that  kind  of  character  had  been  consciously  bred 
in  the  race.     He  changed  his  table. 

The  waiter  brought  him  a  newspaper.  He  fingered 
it,  and  left  it  untouched.  He  was  not  going  to  open 
a  paper  till  he  could  be  sure  that  the  uproar  about 
him  had  been  forgotten.  He  was  a  timorous, 
hunted  hart.  The  hounds  should  not  follow  him 
into  this  retreat.  He  debated  as  he  ate,  whether  he 
should  bicycle,  take  the  "  long  car,"  a  forty-mile 
drive,  or  take  train.  Finally,  seeing  that  the  roads 
were  dry,  and  the  wind  not  bad,  he  decided  to  ride, 
sending  his  baggage  by  the  car.  He  liked  riding  to 
Ottalie.  It  was  a  difficult  ride,  he  thought,  owing 
to  the  blasts  which  beat  down  from  the  hills,  but 
there  came  a  moment,  as  he  well  remembered, 
rather  near  to  the  end  of  the  journey,  when  the 
hills  gave  place  to  mountains.  Here  the  road, 
topping  a  crest,  fell  away,  shewing  a  valley  and  a 
stretch  of  sea.  Hills  and  headlands  rolled  north  in 
ranks  to  a  bluish  haze.  The  crag  beyond  all  rose 
erect  from  the  surf,  an  upright,  defined  line  in  the 
blueness.    From  Ottalie's  home,  high  up,  he  could 

86 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

see  that  great  crag.  With  an  opera-glass  he  could 
see  the  surf  bursting  below  it.  It  was  now  eight 
o'clock.  The  morning  boat  was  coming  in.  He 
would  start.  By  lunch-time  he  would  be  in  his  little 
cottage  above  the  sea.  He  would  swim  before  lunch. 
After  lunch  he  would  climb  through  the  long  grey 
avenue  of  beeches  to  Ottalie's  home.  The  old  ex- 
citement came  over  him  to  give  to  his  ardour  the 
memory  of  many  other  rides  to  her. 

Riding  through  the  squalid  town  he  found  him- 
self reckoning  up  little  curious  particular  details 
of  things  seen  by  him  on  similar  journeys  in  the  past. 
The  clatter  of  the  "long  car"  behind  him  made 
him  spurt  ahead.  It  was  a  point  of  vanity  with  him 
to  beat  the  car  over  the  forty-mile  course.  The 
last  thing  noticed  by  him  as  he  cleared  the  town 
was  a  yellow  afiche,  bearing  the  legend  : 

"loss  of  the  'lord  ullin' 
"  coroner's  verdict." 


87 


V 

One  news  straight  came  huddling  on  another 
Of  death,  and  death,  and  death. 

The  'Broken  Heart. 

THE  sun  was  golden  over  all  the  marvel  of  Ire- 
land. The  sea  came  in  sight  from  time  to 
time.  Beyond  a  cliff  castle  a  gannet  dropped,  white 
and  swift,  with  a  splash  which  faintly  came  to  him  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  away.  Turning  inland,  he  rode 
into  the  hills.  Little  low  rolling  green  hills,  wooded 
and  sunny,  lay  ahead.  On  each  side  of  him  were 
pastures  unspeakably  green,  sleepily  cropped  by 
cattle.  He  set  himself  to  ride  hard  through  this 
bright  land.  He  spurted  up  the  little  hills,  dipped 
down,  and  again  climbed.  He  was  eager  to  reach 
a  gate  on  a  hill-top,  from  which  he  could  see  the 
headland  which  shut  him  from  the  land  of  his 
desire.  As  he  rode,  he  thought  burningly  of  what 
that  afternoon  would  be  to  him.  Ottalie  might  not 
be  there.  She  might  be  away.  She  might  be  out ; 
but  something  told  him  she  would  be  there.  With 
Ottalie  in  the  world,  the  world  did  not  matter 
greatly.  The  thought  of  Ottalie  gave  him  a  fine 
sense,  only  properly  enjoyed  in  youth,  of  his  own 
superiority  to  the  world.  With  a  thumping  heart, 
due  not  to  emotion,  but  to  riding  uphill,  he  climbed 
the  gate,  and  looked  out  over  the  beautiful  fields 
to  the  distant  headland.  There  it  lay,  gleaming, 
fifteen  miles  away.     Beyond  it  was  Ottalie.     Pro- 

88 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

testers,  in  old,  unhappy  far-off  times,  had  painted  a 
skull  and  cross-bones  on  the  gate,  as,  in  other  parts, 
they  dug  graves  at  front  doors,  or  fired  with  lucky 
slugs  from  cover.  The  bones  were  covered  with 
lichen,  now ;  but  the  skull  grinned  at  Roger 
friendly,  as  it  had  often  grinned.  Riding  on,  and 
glancing  back  over  his  shoulder,  at  risk  of  going  into 
the  ditch,  he  saw  the  skull's  eyes  fixed  upon  him. 

The  last  part  of  the  ride  was  downhill.  He  lifted 
his  bicycle  over  a  low  stone  wall,  and  vaulted  over 
after  it.  The  sea  was  within  fifty  yards  of  him,  in 
brimming  flood.  Norah  Kennedy,  the  old  woman 
who  kept  house  for  him,  was  there  at  the  door, 
looking  out. 

"  Indeed,  Mr.  Naldrett,"  she  began ;  "  the 
blessing  of  God  on  you.  I  was  feared  the  boat  was 
gone  down  on  you.  It's  a  sad  time  this  for  you  to 
be  coming  here.  Indeed,  I  never  saw  you  looking 
better.  You're  liker  your  mother  than  your  da. 
He  was  a  grand  man,  your  da,  of  all  the  folks  ever 
I  remember.  Indeed,  your  dinner  is  just  ready 
for  you.    Will  I  wet  the  tea,  sir  ?  " 

The  old  woman  rambled  on  from  subject  to 
subject,  glancing  at  each,  so  lightly,  that  one  less 
used  to  her  ways  would  not  have  suspected  the 
very  shrewd  and  bitter  critic  hidden  beneath  the 
charm  of  the  superficial  nature.  Roger  felt  some- 
how that  the  critic  was  alert  in  her,  that  she  resented 
something  in  his  manner  or  dress.  He  concluded 
that  he  was  late,  or  that  she,  perhaps  in  her  zeal 
for  him,  had  put  on  the  joint  too  early.  As  usual, 
when  she  was  not  pleased,  she  served  the  dinner 
muttering  personal  remarks,  not  knowing  (as  is  the 

89 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

way  with  lonely  old  people,  who  talk  to  themselves) 
that  they  were  sometimes  audible.  "  I'll  do  you 
no  peas  for  your  supper,  my  man,"  was  one  of  her 
asides,  when  he  helped  himself  sparingly  to  peas. 
"  It's  easy  seen  you're  only  an  Englishman,"  was 
another,  at  his  national  diffidence  towards  a  potato. 
Roger  wondered  what  was  wrong,  and  how  soon 
he  would  become  again  "  the  finest  young  man 
ever  I  remember,  except  perhaps  it  was  your  da. 
Indeed,  Mr.  Roger,  to  see  your  da,  and  him  riding 
wast  in  a  red  coat,  you  would  think  it  was  the 
Queen's  man,^  or  one  of  the  Saints  of  God.  ^  There 
was  no  one  I  ever  seen  had  the  glory  on  him  your 
da  had,  unless  it  was  yourself  stepping."  Roger's 
da  had  died  of  drink  there,  after  a  life  passed  in 
the  preservation  of  the  game  laws. 

When  his  baggage  arrived,  he  dressed  carefully, 
and  set  out  up  the  hill  to  Ottahe's  house,  which  he 
could  see,  even  from  his  cottage,  as  a  white,  indeter- 
minate mass,  screened  by  trees  from  sea-winds. 
The  road  branched  off  into  a  loaning,  hedged  with 
tumbled  stone  on  each  side.  As  he  climbed  the 
loaning,  the  roguish  Irish  bulls,  coming  in  a  gallop, 
at  the  sound  of  his  feet,  peered  down  at  him,  through 
hedges  held  together  by  Providence,  or  left  to  the 
bulls'  imagination.  A  lusty  white  bull  followed  him 
for  some  time,  restrained  only  by  a  foot-high  wire. 

"  Indeed,"  said  an  old  labourer,  who,  resting  by 
the  way,  expressed  sympathy  both  for  Roger  and 
the  bull,  "  he's  only  a  young  bull.  He  wad  do  no 
one  anny  hurrt,  except  maybe  he  felt  that  way. 
Let  you  not  trouble,  sir." 

1  The  late  Prince  Consort. 
90 


MULfHUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

Up  above  Ottalie's  house  was  the  garden.  The 
garden  wall  backed  upon  the  loaning.  A  little  blue 
door  with  peehng,  bhstered  paint,  let  him  into  the 
garden,  into  a  long,  straight  rose  -  walk,  in  which 
the  roses  had  not  yet  begun  to  bloom.  A  sweet- 
smelling  herb  grew  by  the  door.  He  crumpled 
a  leaf  of  it  between  his  fingers,  thinking  how  won- 
derful the  earth  was,  which  could  grow  this  frag- 
rance, out  of  mould  and  rain.  The  bees  were  busy 
among  the  flowers.  The  laurustine  was  giving  out 
sweetness.  In  the  sun  of  that  windless  afternoon, 
the  smell  thickened  the  air  above  the  path,  making 
it  a  warm  clot  of  perfume,  to  breathe  which  was  to 
breathe  beginning  life.  Butterflies  wavered,  keep- 
ing low  down,  in  the  manner  of  butterflies  near  the 
coast.  Birds  made  musical  calls,  sudden  delightful 
exclamations,  startling  laughter,  as  though  the  god 
Pan  laughed  to  himself  among  the  laurustine 
bushes. 

He  felt  the  beauty  of  the  late  Irish  season  as  he 
had  never  before  felt  it.  It  stirred  him  to  the 
excitement  which  is  beyond  poetry,  to  that  de- 
lighted sensitiveness,  in  which  the  mind,  tremu- 
lously open,  tremulously  alive,  can  neither  select 
nor  combine.  He  longed  to  be  writing  poetry  ;  but 
in  the  open  air  the  imagination  is  subordinated  to 
the  senses.  The  lines  which  formed  in  his  mind 
were  meaningless  exclamations.  Nature  is  a  setting, 
merely.  The  soul  of  man,  which  alone,  of  created 
things,  regards  her,  is  the  important  thing. 

The  blinds  of  the  sunny  southern  front  were 
drawn  down  ;  but  the  marks  of  carriage  wheels 
upon  the  drive  shewed  him  that  she  had  returned. 

91 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

After  ringing,  he  listened  for  the  cracked  tinkle 
far  away  in  the  kitchen,  and  turning,  saw  a  squirrel 
leap  from  one  beech  to  another,  followed  by  three 
or  four  sparrows.  Footsteps  shuffled  near.  Some- 
where outside,  at  the  back,  an  old  woman's  voice 
asked  whiningly  for  a  bit  of  bread,  for  the  love  of 
the  Almighty  God,  since  she  was  perished  with 
walking  and  had  a  cough  on  her  that  would  raise 
pity  in  a  martial  man.  A  younger  voice,  high,  clear, 
and  hard,  bidding  her  whisht,  and  let  her  get  out 
of  it,  ceased  suddenly,  in  her  prohibition.  The 
door  opened.  There  was  old  Mary  Laverty,  the 
housekeeper. 

"  How  are  you,  Mary  ?    Are  you  quite  well  ?  " 

"  I  am,  sir.     I  thank  you." 

"  Is  Miss  Fawcett  in  ?  " 

"  Have  you  not  heard,  sir  ?  " 

"  Heard  what  ?  " 

"  Miss  Ottalah's  dead,  sir." 

"  What  ?  " 

"  She  was  drowned  in  the  boat  that  was  run  into, 
crossing  the  sea,  two  days  ago.  There  was  a  fog, 
sir.    Did  no  one  tell  you,  sir  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  There  was  eleven  of  them  drowned,  sir." 

"  Was  she  ...     Is  she  lying  here  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir.  She's  within.  The  burying  will  no  be 
till  Saturday.    She  is  no  chested  yet." 

"  Was  Miss  Agatha  with  her  ?  " 

"  Miss  Agatha  was  not  in  the  cabbon.  She  was 
not  wetted,  indeed.  She  had  not  so  much  as  her 
skirrt  wetted,  sir.    She  is  within,  sir." 

"  Do  you  think  she  would  see  me  ?  " 

92 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

"  Come  in,  sir.    I  will  ask." 

He  stepped  in,  feeling  stunned.  His  mind  gave 
him  an  image  of  something  hauled  ashore.  There 
was  an  image  of  a  dripping  thing  being  carried  by 
men  up  the  drive,  the  gravel  crunched  under  their 
boots — crunch — crunch  in  slow  time,  then  a  rest 
at  the  door,  and  then,  slowly,  into  the  hall,  and 
drip,  drip,  up  the  stairs  to  the  darkened  bedroom. 
Then  out  again,  reverently,  fumbling  their  hats, 
to  talk  about  it  with  the  cook.  He  did  not  realize 
what  had  happened.  Here  he  was  in  the  room. 
There  was  his  photograph.  There  was  the  Oriental 
bowl  full  of  potpourri.  Ottalie  had  been  drowned. 
Ottalie  was  lying  upstairs,  a  dead  thing,  with  neither 
voice  nor  movement.  Ottalie  was  dead.  She  had 
sat  with  him  in  that  very  room.  The  old  precise 
sofa  was  her  favourite  seat.  How  could  she  be 
dead  ?  She  had  been  in  London,  asking  for  him, 
only  two  days  before.  Her  letter  was  in  his  pocket. 
There  was  her  music.  There  was  her  violin.  Why 
did  she  not  come  in,  as  of  old,  with  her  smiling 
daintiness,  and  with  her  hands  in  great  gardening 
gauntlets  clasping  tulips  for  the  jars?  That  beauty 
was  over  for  the  world. 

He  was  stunned  by  it.  He  did  not  know  what 
was  happening  ;  but  there  was  Agatha,  motioning  to 
him  not  to  get  up.  He  said  something  about  pity. 
"  I  pity  you."  After  a  minute,  he  added,  "  My 
God  !  "  He  was  trying  to  say  something  to  comfort 
her.  The  change  in  her  told  him  that  it  was  all 
true.  It  branded  it  into  him.  OttaHe  was  dead, 
and  this  was  what  it  meant  to  the  world.     This 


was  death,  this  horror. 


93 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

His  mind  groped  about  like  a  fainting  man  for 
something  to  clutch.  Baudelaire's  lines  rose  up 
before  him.  The  sentiment  of  French  decadence, 
with  its  fancy  of  ingratitude,  made  him  shudder. 
A  turmoil  of  quotations  seethed  and  died  down  in 
him,  "  And  is  old  Double  dead  ?  "  "  Come  away, 
death,"  with  a  phrase  of  Arne's  setting.  A  wan- 
dering strange  phrase  of  Grieg. 

He  went  up    to  Agatha  and  took  her  hands. 

"  You  poor  thing  ;  you  poor  thing,"  he  repeated. 
"  My  God,  you  poor  women  suffer !  "  The  clock 
was  ticking  all  the  time.  Someone  was  bringing  tea 
to  the  next  room.  The  lines  in  the  Persian  rug  had 
a  horrible  regularity.  "  Agatha,"  he  said.  After- 
wards he  believed  that  he  kissed  her,  and  that  she 
thanked  him. 

"  I  don't  know.  I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "  Oh, 
I'm  so  very  wretched.  So  wretched.  So  wretched. 
And  I  can't  die."    She  shook  in  a  passion  of  tears. 

"  She  was  wonderful,"  he  said,  choking.  "  She 
was  so  beautiful.    All  she  did." 

"  She  was  with  me  a  minute  before,"  said  Agatha. 
"  We  were  on  deck.  She  went  down  to  get  a  wrap. 
It  was  so  cold  in  the  fog.  I  had  left  her  wraps  in 
the  dining-room.     It  was  my  fault." 

"  Don't  say  that,  Agatha.    That's  nonsense." 

"  I  never  saw  her  again.  It  all  happened  at  once. 
The  next  instant  we  were  run  into.  I  couldn't 
see  anything.  There  was  a  crash,  which  made  us 
heel  right  over,  and  then  there  was  a  panic.  I 
didn't  know  what  had  happened.  I  tried  to  get 
down  to  her ;  but  a  lot  of  half-drunk  tourists  came 
raving  and  fighting  to  get  to  the  boats.    I  couldn't 

94 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

get  to  the  doors  past  them.  One  of  them  hit  me 
with  his  fist  and  swore  at  me.  The  ship  was  sinking. 
I  nearly  got  to  the  door,  and  then  a  stewardess 
cried  out  that  everybody  was  up  from  below,  and 
then  a  great  brute  of  a  man  flung  me  into  a  boat. 
I  hit  my  head.  When  I  came  to,  I  distinctly  felt 
someone  pulling  off  my  rings,  and  there  was  a  sort 
of  weltering  noise  where  the  ship  had  sunk.  One 
of  the  tourists  cried  out  :  '  Wot-ow  !  A  shipwreck  ; 
oh,  Polly.'  Everybody  was  shouting  all  round  us, 
and  there  was  a  poor  little  child  crying.  I  caught 
at  the  hand  which  was  taking  my  rings."  Here  she 
stopped.  There  had  been  some  final  humiliation 
here.  She  went  on  after  a  moment :  "  The  men 
said  that  everyone  had  been  saved.  I  didn't  know 
till  we  all  landed.  Nor  till  after  that  even.  It  was 
so  foggy.    Then  I  knew. 

"  There  was  a  very  kind  Scotch  lady  who  took 
me  to  the  hotel.  She  was  very  kind.  I  don't  know 
who  she  was.  The  divers  came  from  Belfast  during 
the  night.  Ottalie  was  in  the  saloon.  She  was 
wearing  her  wraps.  She  must  have  just  put  them  on. 
There  were  five  others  in  the  saloon.  The  inquest 
was  ghastly.  One  of  the  witnesses  was  drunk,  and  the 
jury  were  laughing.  The  waiter  at  the  hotel  knew 
me.  He  wired  to  Leslie,  and  Leslie  hired  a  motor 
and  came  over.  Colonel  Fawcett  is  in  bed  with 
sciatica.    Leslie  is  arranging  everything." 

"  Is  Leslie  here  ?  " 

"  No.  Maggie  has  bronchitis.  He  had  to  go 
back.    He'll  be  here  late  to-night." 

"  I  might  have  been  with  you,  Agatha.  If  I'd 
stayed  in  another  minute  on  Tuesday  morning,  I 

95 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

should  have  seen  her.  I  should  have  travelled  with 
you.  It  wouldn't  have  happened.  I  should  have 
gone  for  the  wraps." 

"  We  saw  you  at  your  play,  on  Monday." 

"  I  didn't  know  you  were  in  town.  Oh,  i£  I  had 
only  known !  " 

"  It  was  my  fault  that  you  did  not  know.  I  kept 
back  her  letter  to  you.  I  was  jealous.  I  was  wicked. 
I  think  the  devil  was  in  me." 

"  Don't  think  of  that  now,"  said  Roger  gently. 
He  had  known  it  from  the  first.  "  Is  there  anything 
which  I  can  do,  Agatha  ?    Letters  to  write  ?  " 

"  There  are  stacks  of  letters.  They  all  say  the 
same  thing.  Oh,  I  am  so  wretched,  so  very 
wretched ! "  The  shuddering  took  hold  of  her. 
She  wept  in  a  shaking  tremble  which  seemed  to 
tear  her  in  pieces. 

"  Agatha,"  said  Roger,  "  will  you  come  to  Belfast 
with  me  ?  I  will  hire  the  motor  in  -the  village.  I 
must  get  some  flowers.     It  would  do  you  good  to 


come." 


a 


No.     I  must  stay.     I  shall  only  have  her  two 
days  more." 

He  would  have  asked  to  look  upon  Ottalie  ;  but 
he  refrained,  in  the  presence  of  that  passion.  Agatha 
had  enough  to  bear.  He  would  not  flick  her 
jealousies.  Ottalie  was  lying  just  overhead,  within  a 
dozen  feet  of  him.  Ten  minutes  ago  he  had  been 
thinking  of  her  as  a  lover  thinks  of  his  beloved. 
His  heart  had  been  leaping  with  the  thought  of 
her.  There  she  was,  in  that  quiet  room,  behind 
the  blinds,  lying  on  the  bed,  still  and  blank.  And 
where   was    what    had    made   her    so   wonderful  ? 

96 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

Where  was  the  spirit  who  had  used  her  as  a  lodging  ? 
She  had  been  all  that  makes  woman  wonderful. 
Beautiful  with  beauty  of  mind ;  a  perfect,  perfect 
spirit.  And  she  was  dead.  She  was  lying  upstairs 
dead.  And  here  were  her  two  lovers,  listening  to 
the  clock,  listening  to  the  spade-strokes  in  the 
garden,  where  old  John  was  at  work.  The  smell  of 
the  potpourri,  which  she  had  made  the  summer 
before,  seemed  as  strong  as  incense.  The  portrait 
by  Raeburn,  of  her  great-grandfather,  looked  down 
dispassionately,  with  eyes  that  were  very  like  her 
eyes.  The  clock  had  told  the  time  to  that  old 
soldier  when  he  went  to  be  painted.  It  had  gone 
on  ticking  ever  since.  It  had  been  ticking  when  the 
old  soldier  died,  when  his  son  died,  when  his  grand- 
son died.  Now  she  was  dead,  and  it  was  ticking 
still,  a  solemn  old  clock,  by  Frodsham,  of  Sackville 
Street,  Dublin,  1797,  the  year  before  the  rising. 
It  would  be  ticking  still,  perhaps,  when  all  the 
hearts  then  alive  would  have  ceased  to  tick.  There 
was  something  pitiless  in  that  steady  beat.  Three 
or  four  generations  of  Fawcetts  had  had  their 
lives  measured  by  it,  all  those  beautiful  women 
and  noble  soldiers.  All  the  "  issue  "  mentioned  in 
Burke. 

He  went  out  into  the  light.  All  the  world 
seemed  melted  into  emotion,  and  poured  upon  him. 
He  was  beaten.  It  poured  upon  him.  He  drew  it  in 
with  his  breath.  Everything  within  sight  was  an 
agony  with  memories  of  her.  "  I  must  be  doing 
something,"  he  said  aloud.  "  I  must  get  flowers. 
I  shall  wake  up  presently."  He  turned  at  the  gate, 
his  mind  surging.    "  Could  Agatha  be  sure  that  she 

H  97 


MUniJUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

is  dead  ?  Perhaps  I  am  dead.  Or  it  may  be  a  dream." 
It  was  not  a  dream. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  loaning  he  met  a  red- 
haired  man  from  whom  in  old  time  he  had  bought 
a  boat. 

It's  a  fine  day,  sir,"  said  the  man. 
John,"  said  Roger,  "  tell  Pat  Deloney  I  want 
the  car,  to  go  to  Belfast  at  once.     I  shall  want  him 
to  drive.    Tell  him  to  come  for  me  here." 

"  Indeed,  sir,"  said  John,  looking  at  him  nar- 
rowly. "  There's  many  feeling  that  way.  There 
was  a  light  on  her  you'd  think  it  was  a  saint,  and 
her  coming  east  with  brightness." 

After  John  had  gone  down  to  the  village,  there 
limped  up  an  old,  old,  half-witted  drunken  poet, 
who  fiddled  at  regattas.  He  saluted  Roger,  who 
leaned  on  a  gate,  staring  uphill  towards  the  house. 

"  Indeed,  Mr.  Roger,"  said  the  old  man  ;  "  there's 
a  strong  sorrow  on  the  place  this  day.  There  was 
a  light  burning  beyant.  I  seen  the  same  for  her 
da,  and  for  her  da's  da.  There  was  them  beyant 
wanted  her."  He  waited  for  Roger  to  speak,  but 
getting  no  answer  began  to  ramble  in  Irish,  and 
then  craved  for  maybe  a  sixpence,  because  "  in- 
deed, I  knew  your  da,  Mr.  Roger.  Ah,  your  da 
was  a  grand  man,  would  turn  the  heads  of  all  the 
women,  and  they  great  queens  itself,  having  the 
pick  of  professors  and  prime  ministers  and  anyone 
they'd  a  mind  to." 

After  a  time,  singing  to  himself  in  Irish,  he 
limped  on  up  the  loaning  to  the  house,  to  beg 
maybe  a  bit  of  bread,  in  exchange  for  the  fact  that 
he  had  seen  a  light  burning  for  her,  just  as  he  had 

98 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

seen  it  for  her  da,  her  da's  da,  and  (when  the 
kitchen  brandy  had  arisen  in  him)  her  da's  da's  da 
years  ago. 

The  car  came  snorting  up  the  hill,  and  turned 
in  the  broad  expanse  where  the  loaning  joined  the 
highway.  John  opened  the  door  for  Roger.  "  If 
I  was  a  young  gentleman  and  had  the  right  to  do 
it,"  he  said,  "  I  would  go  in  a  cyar  the  like  of  that 
cyar  down  all  the  craggy  precipices  of  the  world." 
The  car  shook,  spat,  and  darted.  "  Will  ye  go  by 
Tornymoney  ?  "  said  Pat.  "  There's  no  rossers  that 
way." 

"  By  Torneymoney,"  said  Roger.    "  Drive  hard." 

"  Indeed,"  said  Pat ;  "  we  will  do  great  deeds 
this  day.  We  will  make  a  strong  story  by  the 
blessing  of  God.  Let  you  hold  tight,  your  honour. 
There's  holes  in  this  road  would  give  a  queer  twist 
to  a  sea-admiral." 

The  funeral  was  on  Saturday.  About  a  dozen 
men  came.  There  were  five  or  six  Fawcetts  and  old 
Mr.  Laramie,  who  had  married  Maisie  Fawcett, 
Ottalie's  aunt,  one  of  the  beauties  of  her  time. 
The  rest  were  friends  from  the  countryside.  English- 
men in  faith,  education,  and  feeling.  They  stood 
with  bared  heads  in  the  little  lonely  Protestant 
graveyard,  as  Roman  soldiers  may  have  stood  by 
the  pyres  of  their  mates  in  Britain.  They  were 
aliens  there.  They  were  part  of  the  garrison.  They 
were  hiding  under  the  ground  something  too  good 
and  beautiful  to  belong  to  that  outcast  country. 
Roger  had  the  fancy  that  God  would  have  to  be 
very  strong  to  hold  that  outpost.  He  had  not  slept 
for  two  nights.    Sentiments  and  fancies  were  over- 

99 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

whelming  him.  It  was  one  of  those  Irish  days  in 
which  a  quaHty  or  rarity  in  the  air  gives  a  magic, 
either  alluring  or  terrible,  to  every  bush  and  brook 
and  hillock.  He  had  often  thought  that  Ireland 
was  a  haunted  country.  He  thought  so  now, 
standing  by  Ottalie's  grave.  Just  beyond  the  grave- 
yard was  the  river,  which  was  "  bad,"  and  beyond 
that  again  a  hill.  The  hill  was  so  "  bad,"  that  the 
beggarwomen,  passing  in  the  road,  muttering  at 
"  the  mouldy  old  Prots,  playing  at  their  religion, 
God  save  us,"  crossed  themselves  as  they  went  by 
it.  Roger  prayed  that  that  fair  spirit  might  be  at 
peace,  among  all  this  invisible  evil.  His  hand  went 
into  his  breast  pocket  from  time  to  time  to  touch 
her  letter  to  him.  He  watched  Leslie  Fawcett, 
whose  face  was  so  like  hers,  and  old  Mr.  Laramie, 
who  had  won  the  beauty  of  her  time,  and  an  old 
uncle  Fawcett,  who  had  fought  in  Africa,  sixty 
years  before.  The  graves  of  other  Fawcetts  lay 
in  that  corner  of  the  graveyard.  He  read  their 
names,  remembering  them  from  Burke.  He  read 
the  texts  upon  the  stones.  The  texts  had  been  put 
there  in  agonies  of  remorse  and  love  and  memory 
by  the  men  and  women  who  played  croquet  in  an 
old  daguerreotype  in  Ottalie's  sitting-room.  "He 
giveth  His  beloved  sleep,"  and  "  It  is  well  with  the 
child,"  and  one,  a  strange  one,  "  Lord,  have  patience 
with  me,  and  I  will  pay  Thee  all."  They  had  been 
beautiful  and  noble,  these  Fawcetts.  Not  strong, 
not  clever,  but  wonderful.  They  had  had  a  spirit,  a 
spiritual  quality,  as  though  for  many,  many  centuries 
their  women  had  kept  themselves  unspotted  by 
anything  not  noble.     An  instinct  for  style  running 

100 


MULTITUDE    AND    SOLITUDE 

in  the  race  of  the  Fawcetts  for  centuries  had  made 
them  what  they  were. 

A  hope  burned  up  in  Roger  Hke  inspiration.  All 
that  instinct  for  fineness,  that  fastidious  selection 
of  the  right  and  good  which  had  worked  to  make 
Ottalie,  from  long  before  her  birth,  and  had 
flowered  in  her,  was  surely  eternal.  She  had  used 
life  to  make  her  character  beautiful  and  gentle, 
just  as  he  had  used  life  to  discipline  his  mind  to 
the  expression  of  his  imagination.  "  What's  to 
come  "  was  still  unsure ;  but  he  felt  sure,  even  as 
the  trembling  old  incumbent  reminded  them  that 
St.  Paul  had  bidden  them  not  to  sorrow,  that  that 
devotion  was  stronger  than  death.  Her  spirit 
might  be  out  in  the  night,  he  thought,  as  in  time 
his  would  be  ;  but  what  could  assail  that  devotion  ? 
It  was  a  strong  thing,  it  was  a  holy  thing.  He  was 
very  sure  that  nothing  would  overcome  it.  Like 
many  young  men,  ignorant  of  death,  he  had  believed 
in  metempsychosis.  This  blow  of  death  had  brought 
down  that  fancy  with  all  the  other  card-houses  of 
his  mind.  His  nature  was  now,  as  it  were,  humbled 
to  its  knees,  wondering,  stricken,  and  appalled  by 
possibilities  of  death  undreamed  of.  He  could  not 
feel  that  Ottalie  would  live  again,  in  a  new  body, 
starting  afresh,  in  a  new  life-machine,  with  all  the 
acquired  character  of  the  past  life  as  a  reserve 
of  strength.  He  could  only  feel  that  somewhere 
in  that  great  empty  air,  outside  the  precise  defi- 
nition of  living  forms,  Ottalie,  the  little,  con- 
quered kingdom  of  beauty  and  goodness,  existed 
still.  It  was  something.  Newman's  hymn,  with 
its  lovely  closing  couplet,   moved  him  and  com- 

lOI 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

forted  him.  One  of  the  Fawcetts  was  crying, 
snuffling,  with  a  firm  mouth,  as  men  usually  cry. 
He  himself  was  near  to  tears.  He  was  being  torn 
by  the  thought  that  Ottalie  was  lonely,  very  lonely 
and  frightened,  out  there  beyond  life,  beyond  the 
order  of  defined  live  things. 

He  walked  back  with  Leslie  Fawcett.  Agatha's 
mother  was  at  the  house  ;  Leslie  was  stopping  in 
the  cottage  with  him. 

"  Poor  little  Ollie,"  said  Leslie  gently. 

"  She  was  very  beautiful,"  said  Roger.  He 
thought,  as  he  said  it,  that  it  was  a  strange  thing 
for  an  Englishman  to  say  to  a  dead  woman's  brother. 
"  She  was  very  beautiful.  It  must  be  terrible  to 
you.    You  knew  her  in  an  intimate  relation." 

"  Yes,"  said  Leslie,  looking  hard  at  Roger,  out  of 
grave  level  eyes.   "  She  was  a  very  perfect  character." 

They  were  climbing  the  cliff  road  to  the  cottage. 
The  sea  was  just  below  them.  The  water  was 
ruffled  to  whiteness.  Sullivan's  jobble  stretched  in 
breakers  across  the  bay  from  Carn  Point.  Gannets, 
plunging  in  the  jobble,  flung  aloft  white  founts,  as 
though  shot  were  striking. 

"  You  were  very  great  friends,"  said  Roger.  "  I 
mean,  even  for  brother  and  sister." 

"  Johnny  was  her  favourite  brother,  as  a  child," 
said  Leslie.  "  You  did  not  see  much  of  Johnny. 
He  was  killed  in  the  war.  And  then  he  was  in  India 
a  long  time.  It  was  after  Johnny's  death  that 
Ottalie  and  I  began  to  be  so  much  to  each  other. 
You  see,  Agatha  was  only  with  her  about  five 
months  in  the  year.  She  was  with  us  nearly  that 
each  year.     She  was  wonderful  with  children." 

102 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

"  Yes,"  said  Roger,  holding  open  the  gate  o£  the 
Httle  garden  so  that  his  guest  might  pass,  "  I 
know."  He  was  not  hkely  to  forget  how  wonderful 
she  had  been  with  children.  They  went  into  the 
little  sitting-room  where  Norah,  in  one  of  her 
black  moods,  gave  them  tea.  After  tea  they  sat 
in  the  garden,  looking  out  over  the  low  hedge  at 
the  bay.  At  sunset  they  walked  along  the  coast  to 
a  place  which  they  had  called  "  the  cove."  They 
had  used  to  bathe  there.  A  little  brook  tumbled 
over  a  rock  in  a  forty-foot  fall.  Below  the  fall  was 
a  pool,  overgrown  later  in  the  year  with  meadow- 
sweet and  honeysuckle,  but  clear  now,  save  for  the 
rushes  and  brambles.  The  brook  slid  out  from  the 
basin  over  a  reddish  rock  worn  smooth,  even  in  its 
veins  and  knuckles,  by  many  centuries  of  trickling. 
Storms  had  piled  shingle  below  this  slide  of  water. 
The  brook  dribbled  to  the  sea  unseen,  making  a 
gurgling,  tinkling  noise.  Up  above,  at  the  place 
where  the  fall  first  leapt,  among  some  ash  trees, 
windy  and  grey,  stood  what  was  left  of  a  nunnery, 
of  reddish  stone,  fire-blackened,  among  a  company 
of  tumbled  gravestones. 

Of  all  the  places  sacred  to  Ottalie  in  Roger's 
mind,  that  was  the  most  sacred.  They  had  been 
happy  there.  They  had  talked  intimately  there, 
moved  by  the  place's  beauty.  His  most  vivid 
memories  of  her  had  that  beautiful  place  for  their 
setting. 

"  Roger,"  said  Leslie,  "  did  you  see  her  in  town, 
before  this  happened  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  You  did  not  see  her  ?  " 

103 


MULTHUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

"  No.    Not  this  time." 
She  was  going  to  see  you." 


iC 


"  I  beheve  she  came  just  before  she  started.  I 
had  just  gone  out.    We  missed  each  other." 

LesHe  hfted  his  pince-nez.  He  was  looking  at 
Roger,  with  the  grave,  steady  look  by  which  people 
remembered  him.  Roger  thought  afterwards  that 
his  putting  on  of  the  pince-nez  had  been  done 
tenderly,  as  though  he  had  said,  "  I  see  that  you  are 
suffering.  With  these  glasses  I  shall  see  how  to 
help  you." 

"  You  were  in  love  with  her  ?  "  he  asked,  in  a 
low  voice. 

"  Yes.    Who  was  not  ?  " 

"  I  have  something  to  say  to  you  about  that. 
Have  you  ever  thought  of  what  marriage  means  ? 
I  am  not  talking  of  the  passionate  side.  That  is 
nothing.  I  am  talking  of  the  everyday  aspect  of 
married  life.    Have  you  thought  of  that  at  all  ?  " 

"  All  men  have  thought  of  it." 

"  Yes ;  I  grant  you.  All  men  have  thought  of  it. 
But  do  many  of  them  think  it  home  ?  Have  you  ? 
I  imagine  that  most  men  never  follow  the  thought 
home  ;  but  leave  it  in  day-dreams,  and  images  of 
selfishness.  I  don't  think  that  many  men  realize 
how  infinitely  much  finer  in  quality  the  woman's 
mind  is.  Nor  how  much  more  delicately  quick  it 
is.  Nor  what  the  clash  of  that  quickness  and  fineness, 
with  something  duller  and  grosser,  may  entail,  in 
ordinary  everyday  life,  to  the  woman." 

"  I  think  that  I  realize  it." 

"  Yes,  perhaps.  Perhaps  you  do  realize  it,  as  an 
intellectual   question.      But   would   you,    do   most 

104 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

men,  realize  it  as  life  realizes  it  ?  It  is  one  thing 
to  imagine  one's  duty  to  one's  wife,  when,  as  a 
bachelor,  used  to  all  manner  of  self-indulgence,  one 
sits  smoking  over  the  fire.  But  to  carry  out  that 
duty  in  life  taxes  the  character.  Swiftness  of 
responsion,  tact,  is  rarer  than  genius.  I  imagine 
that  with  you,  temporary  sensation  counts  for  more 
than  an  ordered,  and  possibly  rigid,  attitude,  to- 
wards life  as  a  whole." 

"  Both  count  for  very  much  ;  or  did.  Nothing 
seems  very  much  at  this  moment." 

"  OttaHe  loved  you,"  said  LesHe  simply.  "  But 
she  felt  that  there  was  this  want  in  you,  of  so  think- 
ing things  home  that  they  become  character.  She 
thought  you  too  ready  to  surrender  to  immediate 
and,  perhaps,  wayward  emotions.  She  was  not  sure 
that  you  could  help  her  to  be  the  finest  thing  pos- 
sible to  her,  nor  that  she  could  so  help  you." 

"  How  do  you  know  this  ?  " 

"  She  discussed  it  with  me.  She  wanted  my 
help.  I  said  that  I  ought  not  to  interfere,  but  that, 
on  the  whole,  I  thought  that  she  was  right.  That, 
in  fact,  your  love  was  not  in  the  depths  of  your 
nature.  I  said  this  ;  but  I  added  that  you  were 
too  sensitive  to  impressions  not  to  grow,  and  that 
(rightly  influenced)  there  is  hardly  anything  which 
you  might  not  become.  The  danger  which  threatens 
you  seems  to  me  to  threaten  all  artists.  Art  is  a 
great  strain.  It  compels  selfishness.  I  have  won- 
dered whether,  if  things  had  been  different,  if  you 
had  married  OttaHe,  you  could  have  come  from 
creating  heroines  to  tend  a  wife's  headache  ;  or, 
with  a  headache  yourself,  have  seen  the  heroine 

105 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

in  her.  We  have  Hfe  before  us.  You  are  all  ten- 
derness and  nobleness  now.  It  is  sad  that  we  have 
not  this  always  in  our  minds." 

"  Yes,"  said  Roger.  "  We  have  life  ;  and  all  my 
old  life  is  a  house  of  cards.  Before  this  it  seemed  a 
noble  thing  to  strive  with  my  whole  strength  to 
express  certain  principles,  and  to  give  reality  and 
beauty  to  imagined  character.  I  worked  to  please 
her.  And  often  I  did  not  understand  her,  and  did 
not  know  her.  I  have  walked  in  her  mind,  and  the 
houses  were  all  shut  up.  I  could  only  knock  at  the 
doors  and  listen.  And  now  I  never  shall  know.  I 
only  know  that  she  was  a  very  beautiful  thing,  and 
that  I  loved  her,  and  tried  to  make  my  work  worthy 
of  her." 

"  She  loved  you,  too,"  said  Leslie.  "  Whatever 
death  may  be,  we  ought  to  look  upon  it  as  a  part 
of  life.  Try  to  be  all  that  you  might  have  been 
with  her.  Never  mind  about  your  work.  You  have 
been  too  fond  of  emotional  self-indulgence.  Set 
that  aside,  and  go  on.  She  would  have  married 
you.  Try  to  realize  that.  Her  nature  would  have 
been  a  part  of  yours.  All  your  character  would  have 
been  sifted  and  tested  and  refined  by  her.  Now 
let  us  go  in,  Roger.  Tell  me  what  you  are  going 
to  do." 

"  There  is  not  much  to  do.  I  must  try  to  re- 
arrange my  life.  But  I  see  one  thing,  I  think,  that 
art  is  very  frightful  when  it  has  not  the  seriousness 
of  life  and  death  in  it." 

"  Yes,"  said  Leslie.  "  Maggie  and  I  went  into 
that  together.  We  built  up  a  theory  that  the  art 
life  is  strangely  like  the  life  of  the  religious  con- 

io6 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

templative.  Both  attract  men  by  the  gratification 
of  emotion  as  well  as  by  the  possibility  of  per- 
fection. One  of  the  great  Spanish  saints,  I  think 
it  is  St.  John  of  Avila,  says  that  many  novices 
deliberately  indulge  themselves  in  religious  emotion, 
for  the  sake  of  the  emotion,  instead  of  for  the  love 
of  God  ;  but  that  the  knowledge  of  God  is  only 
revealed  to  those  who  get  beyond  that  stage,  and 
can  endure  stages  of '  stypticities  and  drynesses,'  with 
the  same  fervour.  It  seems  to  us  (of  course  we  are 
both  Philistines)  that  modern  art  does  not  take 
enough  out  of  those  who  produce  it.  The  world 
flatters  them  too  much.  I  suspect  that  flattery  of 
the  world  is  going  on  in  return." 

"  Not  from  the  best." 

Leslie  shook  his  head  unconvinced.  "  You  are 
not  producing  martyrs,"  he  said.  "  You  do  not 
attack  bad  things.  You  laugh  at  them,  or  photo- 
graph them,  and  call  it  satire.  You  belong  to  the 
world,  my  friend  Roger.  You  are  a  part  of  the 
vanity  of  the  world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil. 
You  have  not  even  made  the  idea  of  woman  glorious 
in  men's  minds.  Otherwise  they  would  have  votes 
and  power  in  the  Houses.  Not  one  of  you  has  even 
been  imprisoned  for  maiming  a  censor  of  plays. 
All  the  generations  have  a  certain  amount  of  truth 
revealed  to  them.  It  is  very  dangerous  to  discover 
truth.  You  can  learn  what  kind  of  truth  is  being 
revealed  to  an  age  by  noting  what  kind  of  people 
give  their  lives  for  ideas.  It  used  at  one  time  to  be 
bishops.    Think  of  it." 

Leslie  talked  on,  shaping  the  talk  as  he  had  planned 
it  beforehand,   but  pointing  it  so  gently  that  it 

107 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

was  not  till  afterwards  that  Roger,  realizing  his 
motives,  gave  him  thanks  for  his  unselfishness. 
They  stopped  on  the  rushy  hill  below  Ottalie's 
home,  just  as  the  sun,  now  sinking,  flamed  out  upon 
her  window,  till  it  burned  like  the  sun  itself.  To 
Roger  it  seemed  like  a  flaming  door.  She  had 
looked  out  there,  from  that  window.  Her  little 
writing-table,  with  its  jar  of  sweet  peas,  and  that 
other  jar,  of  autumn  berries  and  the  silvery  parch- 
ment of  honesty,  stood  just  below  it,  on  each  side 
of  the  blotter,  bound  in  mottled  chintz.  Leslie's 
talk  came  home  to  him  fiercely.  The  clawings  of 
remorse  came.  He  knew  the  room.  He  had  never 
known  the  inmate.  She  was  gone.  He  had  wasted 
his  chance.  He  might  have  known  her  ;  but  he 
had  preferred  to  indulge  in  those  emotions  and 
sentiments  which  keep  the  soul  from  knowledge. 
Now  she  was  gone.  All  the  agony  of  remorse  cried 
out  in  him  for  one  little  moment  in  the  room  with 
her,  to  tell  her  that  he  loved  her,  for  one  little 
word  of  farewell,  one  sight  of  the  beloved  face,  so 
that  he  might  remember  it  for  ever.  Memories 
rose  up,  choking  him.  She  was  gone.  There  was 
only  the  flaming  door. 

"  Roger,"  said  Leslie,  in  his  even,  gentle  voice, 
which  had  such  a  quality  of  attraction  in  it,  "Maggie 
asked  me  to  bring  you  back  with  me  to  stay  a  couple 
of  weeks." 

In  his  confused  sleep  that  night  he  dreamed  that 
Ottalie  was  lying  ill  in  her  room,  behind  a  bolted 
copper  door  which  gleamed.  The  passage  without 
the  room  was  lighted.     People  came  to  the  door 

1 08 


MULTITUDE    AND    SOLITUDE 

to  knock.  A  long  procession  of  people  came.  He 
saw  them  listening  intently  there,  with  their  ears 
bent  to  the  keyhole.  They  were  all  the  people  who 
had  been  in  love  with  her.  Some  were  relatives, 
some  were  men  who  had  seen  her  at  dances,  some 
were  women,  some  were  old  friends  like  himself. 
Last  of  all  came  an  elderly  lady  carrying  a  light. 
She  was  dressed  in  a  robe  of  dim  purple.  She,  too, 
knocked  sharply  on  the  door.  She  lingered  there, 
long  enough  for  him  to  study  her  fine,  intellectual 
face.  It  was  the  face  of  Ottalie  grown  old.  The 
woman  was  the  completed  Ottalie. 

For  a  moment  she  stood  there  listening,  as  one 
listens  at  the  door  of  a  sick-room.  Then  she 
knocked  a  second  time,  sharply,  calling  "  Ottalie  !  " 
He  saw  then  that  it  was  not  a  door  but  a  flame. 
He  heard  from  within  a  strangled  answer,  as  though 
someone,  half  dead,  had  risen  to  open.  Someone 
was  coming  to  the  door.  Even  in  his  dream  his 
blood  leaped  with  the  expectation  of  his  love. 

But  it  was  not  his  love.  It  was  himself,  strangling 
in  the  flames  to  get  to  her.  She  reached  her  hand 
to  him.  Though  the  flames  were  stifling,  he  touched 
her.  It  was  as  though  the  agony  of  many  years 
had  been  changed  suddenly  to  ecstasy.  "  Roger," 
she  said.  Her  hand  caught  him,  she  drew  him 
through  the  fire  to  her.  He  saw  her  raise  the  candle 
to  look  at  his  face.  For  a  moment  they  were 
looking  at  each  other,  there  in  the  passage.  The 
agony  was  over.  They  were  together,  looking  into 
each  other's  eyes.  He  felt  her  life  coursing  into 
him  from  her  touch. 

Voices  spoke  without.     Norah,  at  the  door,  was 

109 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

haggling.  "  Is  that  all  the  milk  ye've  brought, 
Kitty  O'Hara  ?  " 

The  dream  faded  away  as  the  life  broke  in  upon 
him.  There  was  some  word,  some  song.  Someone 
with  a  fine  voice  was  singing  outside,  singing  in  the 
dream,  singing  about  a  fever.  Ottalie  was  holding 
him,  but  her  touch  was  fading  from  his  sense,  and 
joy  was  rushing  from  him.  Outside,  on  the  top 
spray  of  the  blackthorn,  a  yellow-hammer  trilled, 
"  A  little  bit  of  bread  and  no — che-e-e-e-se," 
telling  him  that  the  world  was  going  on. 

The  fortnight  passed.  Roger  was  going  back  to 
London.  The  day  before  he  sailed  he  rode  over 
with  Leslie  to  take  a  last  look  at  Ottalie's  home. 
He  left  Leslie  at  the  cottage,  so  that  he  might  go 
there  alone.  He  walked  alone  up  the  loaning. 
Within  the  garden  he  paused,  looking  down  at  the 
house.  The  smell  of  the  sweet  verbena  was  very 
strong,  in  that  mild  damp  air,  full  of  the  promise 
of  rain.  A  paper  was  blowing  about  along  the 
walk.  A  white  kitten,  romping  out  from  the  stable, 
pounced  on  it,  worried  it  with  swift  gougings  of 
the  hind  claws,  then,  spitting,  with  ears  laid  back 
and  tail  bristling,  raced  away  for  a  swift  climb  up 
a  pear-tree.  Roger  picked  up  the  paper.  It  would 
be  a  relic  of  the  place.  He  felt  inclined  to  treasure 
everything  there,  to  take  the  house,  never  to  go 
away  from  it,  or,  failing  that,  to  carry  away  many 
of  her  favourite  flowers.  He  straightened  the 
paper  so  that  he  might  read  it. 

It  was  a  double  page  from  a  year-old  London 
paper  entitled  Top-Knots.  It  consisted  of  scraps 
of  gossip,  scraps  of  news,  scraps  of  information, 

no 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

seasoned  with  imperial  feeling.  It  had  been  edited 
by  someone  with  a  sense  of  the  purity  of  the  home. 
It  was  harmless  stuff.  The  wisdom  of  the  reader 
was  flattered  ;  the  wisdom  of  the  foreigner  was 
not  openly  condemned.  Though  some  fear  of 
invasion  was  implied,  its  possibility  was  flouted. 
"  It  was  a  maxim  of  our  Nelson  that  one  English- 
man was  worth  three  foreigners."  The  jokes  were 
feeble.  The  paper  catered  for  a  class  of  poor,  half- 
educated  people  without  more  leisure  than  the 
morning  ride  to  business,  and  the  hour  of  exhaus- 
tion between  supper  and  bed.  It  was  well  enough 
in  its  way.  Some  day,  when  life  is  less  exhausting, 
men  will  demand  stuff  with  more  life.  Something 
caught  Roger's  eye.  He  read  it  through.  It  was 
the  first  thing  read  by  him  since  his  arrival  there. 

"  Sleeping  Sickness. 

"  It  is  not  generally  known  that  this  devasting 
ailment  is  caused  by  the  presence  of  a  minute  micro- 
organism in  the  human  system.  The  micro- 
organism may  exist  in  unsuspected  harmlessness 
for  many  years  in  the  victim's  blood.  It  is  not 
until  it  enters  what  is  known  to  scientists  as  the 
cerebro-spinal  fluid,  or  as  we  should  call  it,  the 
marrow,  that  it  sets  up  the  peculiar  symptoms  of 
the  dread  disease  which  has  so  far  baffled  the  in- 
genuity of  our  soi-disant  savants.  This  terrible 
affliction,  which  is  not  by  any  means  confined  to 
those  inferior  members  of  the  human  race,  the 
dusky  inhabitants  of  Uganda,  consists  of  a  lethargy 
accompanied  with  great  variations  of  temperature. 


Ill 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

So  far  the  dread  complaint  is  without  a  remedy. 
Well  may  the  medico  echo  the  words  of  the  Prince 
of  Denmark  : 

'  There  are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth,  Horatio, 
Than  are  dreamed  of  in  your  philosophy.'  " 

There  was  no  more  about  the  disease.  The  page 
ended  with  a  joke  about  a  mother-in-law.  The 
paragraph  made  Roger  remember  an  article  which 
he  had  once  read  about  the  sudden  rise  of  the  sick- 
ness in  some  district  in  Africa.  He  remembered 
the  photograph  of  a  young  African,  who  was  dozing 
his  life  away,  propped  against  a  tree.  The  thought 
passed.  In  another  instant  he  was  full  of  his  own 
misery  again.  But  instead  of  throwing  away  the 
paper,  he  folded  it,  and  put  it  in  his  pocket-case. 
It  would  remind  him  of  that  last  visit  to  Ottalie's 
garden.    He  would  keep  it  for  ever. 

His  wretchedness  gave  him  a  craving  to  be 
tender  to  something.  He  tried  to  attract  the  kitten, 
but  the  kitten,  tiring  of  her  romp,  scampered  to 
the  garden  wall  to  stalk  sparrows.  He  plucked  a 
leaf  or  two  from  the  verbena.  He  went  into  the 
house. 

Agatha  welcomed  him.  She  was  writing  replies 
to  letters  of  condolence.  The  death  had  taken  her 
hardness  from  her. 

"  Sit  down  and  talk,"  she  said.  "  What  are  you 
going  to  do  ?  " 

"  That  is  like  a  woman,"  he  said.  "  Women  are 
wonderful.  They  use  a  man's  vanity  to  protect 
themselves  from  his  egotism.  I  came  here  to  ask 
you  that.    What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 

112 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

"  I  shall  go  on  with  my  work,"  she  said.  "  I  am 
sure  not  to  marry.  I  shall  start  a  little  school  for 
poor  girls." 

"  At  Great  Harley  ?  But  you  were  doing  that 
before." 

"  Only  in  a  very  desultory  sort  of  way.  But 
now  it  is  all  different.  Life  has  become  so  much 
bigger." 

"  Will  you  tell  me  about  it  ?  I  should  hke  to 
hear  about  it." 

"  Oh,  it  would  only  bore  you.  I  shall  just  teach 
them  the  simplest  things.  How  to  darn  clothes, 
how  to  cook,  and  perhaps  a  little  singing.  It  isn't 
as  though  I  were  a  learned  person." 

"  How  kind  of  you." 

"  It  isn't  kind  at  all." 

"  You  will  be  taking  girls  of  from  thirteen  to 
sixteen  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I've  got  no  flair  for  very  little  children. 
Besides,  there  is  nothing  which  I  could  teach  them. 
I  want  to  get  hold  of  them  at  an  age  when  I  can 
really  be  of  use  to  them." 

She  drummed  a  little  with  one  foot. 

"  I  wish  that  you  would  let  me  help  you,"  he 
continued. 

"  Thank  you  very  much.  That  is  very  kind  of 
you.    But  I  must  do  this  quite  by  myself." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  the  flat  in  town?" 
he  asked.  "  I  should  like  to  take  it  if  you  are  going 
to  give  it  up." 

"  Oh,  I  shall  keep  it  on,"  she  said.  "  I  shall  be 
up  for  week-ends  a  good  deal,  at  any  rate  until  I 
have  got  my  class  in  working  order." 

I  IIT, 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

*'  You  will  let  me  know  if  you  ever  want  to  give 
it  up  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Certainly  I  will.  Will  you  go  back  ? 
I  suppose  you  will  be  going  back  to  your  work. 
What  are  your  plans  ?  You  never  answered 
my  question.  You  went  flying  off  into  apoph- 
thegms." 

"  I  loved  Ottalie,  too,"  he  answered.  "  I  won't 
say  as  much  as  you  did,  for  you  knew  her  intimately. 
I  never  was  soul  to  soul  with  her  as  you  were  ; 
but  I  loved  her.  I  want  now  to  make  my  life  worthy 
of  her,  as  you  do.  But  it  won't  be  in  my  work.  I 
don't  know  what  it  will  be  in.  You  women  are 
lucky.    You  can  know  people  like  her." 

"  Yes.  I  shall  always  be  glad  of  that,"  said 
Agatha.  "  Even  the  loss  is  bearable  when  I  think 
that  I  knew  her  fully.  Perhaps  better  than  any- 
one." 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  He  paused,  turning  it  over  in 
his  mind.  "  Life  is  a  conspiracy  against  women," 
he  added.  "  That  is  why  they  are  so  wonderful 
and  so  strange.  I  am  only  groping  in  the  dark 
about  her," 

"  Roger,"  said  Agatha,  speaking  slowly,  "  I  think 
I  ought  to  tell  you.  I  knew  that  you  were  in  love 
with  her.  I  was  jealous  of  you.  I  did  all  that  I 
could  to  keep  you  apart.  She  was  in  love  with 
you.  When  she  saw  you  at  the  theatre  before  the 
disturbance  began,  she  would  have  gone  to  your 
box  if  I  had  not  said  that  I  was  sure  you  would 
prefer  to  be  alone.  In  the  morning  she  saw  what  one 
of  the  papers  said.  She  insisted  on  going  to  see  you 
at  your  rooms.    She  said  that  she  was  sure  you  were 

114 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

expecting  her,  or  that  something  had  kept  her 
letters  from  you.  I  told  her  that  it  wasn't  a  very- 
usual  thing  to  do.  She  said  that  she  would  talk 
about  that  afterwards.  Afterwards,  when  she  had 
gone,  and  failed  to  see  you,  she  was  horrified  at 
what  you  might  think  of  her." 

It  was  very  sweet  to  hear  more  of  her,  thus,  after 
all  was  over.  It  was  something  new  about  her. 
He  had  never  seen  that  side  of  her.  He  wondered 
how  much  more  Agatha  would  tell  him,  or  permit 
him  to  learn,  in  years  to  come.  He  saw  that  she 
was  near  tears.  He  was  not  going  to  keep  her  longer 
on  the  rack. 

"  Agatha,"  he  said,  "  we  have  been  at  cross- 
purposes  for  a  long  time  now.  We  have  not  been 
just  to  each  other.  Let  it  end  now.  We  both  loved 
her.  Don't  let  it  go  on,  now  that  she  is  dead.  I 
want  to  feel  that  the  one  who  knew  her  best  is 
my  friend.  I  want  you  to  let  me  help  you,  as  a 
brother  might,  whenever  you  want  help.    Will  you  ?  " 

She  said,  "  Thank  you,  Roger."  They  shook 
hands.  He  remembered  afterwards  how  the  lustre 
of  the  honesty  shewed  behind  her  head.  A  worn 
old  panther  skin,  the  relic  of  a  beast  which  had 
been  shot  in  India  by  Ottalie's  father  so  many  years 
before  that  the  hairless  hide  was  like  parchment 
beneath  the  feet,  crackled  as  she  left  the  room. 
Roger  plucked  some  of  the  silvery  seed  vessels  for 
remembrance. 

He  stood  in  the  hall  for  a  moment  trying  to  fix 
it  in  his  mind.  There  was  the  barometer,  by 
Dakins,  of  South  Castle  Street,  in  Liverpool,  an 
old  piece,  handsome,  but  long  since  useless.    There 

IIS 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

were  the  well-remembered  doors.  The  dining- 
room  door,  the  library  door,  the  door  leading  into 
the  jolly  south  room,  the  room  sweet  with  the 
vague  perfume,  almost  the  memory  of  a  perfume, 
as  though  the  ghosts  of  flowers  strayed  there. 
The  door  of  that  room  was  open.  Through  its 
open  windows  he  could  see  the  blue  of  the  bay, 
twinkling  to  the  wind.  Near  the  window  was  the 
piano,  heaped  with  music.  A  waltz  lay  upon  the 
piano :  the  Myosotis  Waltz.  Let  no  one  despise 
dance  music.  It  is  the  music  which  breaks  the 
heart.  It  is  full  of  hghts  and  scents,  the  laughter 
of  pretty  women  and  youth's  triumph.  To  the 
man  or  woman  who  has  failed  in  life  the  sound  of 
such  music  is  bitter.  It  is  youth  reproaching  age. 
It  indicates  the  anti-climax. 

He  walked  with  Leslie  through  the  village.  The 
ragged  men  on  the  bridge,  hearing  them  coming, 
turned,  and  touched  what  had  once  been  their  hats 
to  them.  They  were  not  made  for  death,  those  old 
men.  They  were  the  only  Irish  things  which  the 
English  tourist  had  not  corrupted.  They  leant  on 
the  parapet  all  day.  In  the  forenoons  they  looked 
at  the  road  and  at  the  people  passing.  In  the 
afternoons,  when  the  sun  made  their  old  eyes  bHnk, 
they  turned  and  looked  into  the  water,  where 
it  gurgled  over  rusty  cans,  a  clear  brown  peat- 
stream.  A  quarter  of  a  mile  up  the  stream  was  the 
graveyard,  where  the  earth  had  by  this  time  ceased 
to  settle  over  OttaHe's  face.  On  the  grave,  loosely 
tied  with  rushes,  was  a  bunch  of  dog-roses. 

They  climbed  the  sharp  rise  beyond  the  bridge. 
Here  they  began  to  ride.     They  were  going  to  ride 

ii6 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

thirty  miles  to  the  hotel.  There  they  would  sleep. 
In  the  morning  Roger  would  take  the  steamer  and 
return  to  London,  where  he  would  dree  his  weird 
by  his  lane  as  best  he  could. 

The  men  on  the  quay  were  loading  ore,  as  o£  old, 
into  a  dirty  Glasgow  coaster.  One  of  them  asked 
Roger  which  team  had  won  at  the  hurling. 

They  ploughed  through  the  red  mud  churned  by 
the  ore-carts.  The  schooner  lay  bilged  on  the  sand, 
as  of  old,  with  one  forlorn  rope  flogging  the  air. 
One  or  two  golfers  loafed  with  their  attendant 
loafers  on  the  Hnks.  They  rode  past  them.  Then 
on  the  long,  straight,  eastward  bearing  road,  which 
rounds  Carn  Point,  they  began  to  hurry,  having 
the  wind  from  the  glens  behind  them.  Soon  they 
were  at  the  last  gloomy  angle  from  which  the 
familiar  hills  could  be  seen.  They  rounded  it. 
They  passed  the  little  turnpike.  A  cutter  yacht, 
standing  close  inshore,  bowed  slowly  under  all 
sail  before  them.  She  Hfted,  poising,  as  the  helm 
went  down.  Her  sails  trembled  into  a  great  rippling 
shaking,  then  steadied  suddenly  as  the  sheet  checked. 
A  man  aboard  her  waved  his  hand  to  them, 
calling  something.  They  spun  downhill  from  the 
cutter.  Now  they  were  passing  by  a  shore  where 
the  water  broke  on  weed-covered  boulders.  From 
that  point  the  road  became  more  ugly  at  each  turn 
of  the  wheel.    It  was  the  road  to  England. 

They  stopped  at  the  posting-house  so  that  a 
puncture  might  be  mended  while  they  were  at  tea. 
Tea  was  served  in  a  long,  damp,  decaying  room, 
hung  with  shabby  stuff  curtains.  Vividly  coloured 
portraits   of  Queen  Victoria   and    Robert   Emmet 

117 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

hung  from  the  walls.  On  the  sideboard  were  many- 
metal  teapots.  On  the  table,  copies  of  Commerce, 
each  surmounted  by  a  time-table  in  a  hard  red 
cover,  surrounded  a  tray  of  pink  wineglasses  grouped 
about  an  aspodesta.  On  a  piano  was  a  pile  of 
magazines,  some  of  them  ten  years  old,  all  coverless 
and  dog's-eared.  Roger  picked  up.  one  of  the  newest 
of  them,  not  because  he  wanted  to  read  it,  but 
because,  like  many  literary  men,  he  was  unable  to 
keep  his  hands  off  printed  matter.  He  answered 
Leslie  at  random  as  he  looked  through  it.  There 
was  not  much  to  interest  him  there.  Towards  the 
end  of  it  there  was  a  photograph  of  an  African  hut, 
against  which  a  man  and  woman  huddled,  ap- 
parently asleep.  A  white  man  in  tropical  clothes 
stood  beside  them,  looking  at  something  in  a  sort 
of  test-tube. 

"  A  Common  Scene  in  tpie  Sleeping  Sickness 
Belt,"  ran  the  legend.  Underneath,  in  smaller  type, 
was  written,  "  This  photograph  represents  two 
natives  in  the  last  stages  of  the  dread  disease,  which, 
at  present,  is  believed  to  be  incurable.  The  man  in 
white,  to  1.  of  the  picture  (reader's  r.),  is  Dr.  Wanklyn, 
of  the  Un.  Kgdm.  Med.  Assn.  The  photograph 
was  taken  by  Mr.  A.  S.  Smallpiece,  Dr.  Wanklyn's 
assistant.     Copyright." 

"  What  do  you  know  of  sleeping  sickness, 
Leslie  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Sleeping  sickness  ?  "  said  Leslie.  "  There  was 
an  article  about  it  in  The  Fortnightly,  or  one  of  the 
reviews.  There  w^as  a  theory  that  it  is  caused  in 
some  way  by  the  bite  of  a  tsetse  fly." 

"  Yes,"  said  Roger.     "  I  remember  that." 

iiS 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

"  Then  when  Maggie  and  I  were  staying  at 
Drumnalorry  we  met  old  Dr.  MacKenzie.  He  was 
out  in  Africa  a  great  deal,  fifty  or  sixty  years  ago. 
He  was  a  great  friend  of  my  mother's.  He  told  us 
at  dinner  one  night  that  sleeping  sickness  is  not  a 
new  thing  at  all,  but  a  very  old  thing.  The  natives 
used  to  get  it  even  in  his  day.  He  said  that  the 
tsetse  fly  theory  was  really  all  nonsense.  He  called 
it  a  pure  invention,  based  on  the  discovery  that 
yellow  fever  is  spread  by  the  white-ribbed  mosquito. 
His  own  theory  was  that  it  was  caused  by  manioc 
intoxication." 

"  That  seems  to  me  to  be  the  prejudice  of  an  old 
man.    What  is  manioc  ?  " 

"  A  kind  of  a  root,  like  cassava,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  Probably.     What  is  cassava  ?  " 

"  It's  what  they  make  bread  of  ;  cassava  bread. 
It's  poisonous  until  you  bake  it.  Isn't  that  the 
stuff  ?     Are  you  interested  in  sleeping  sickness  ?  " 

"  Yes.  It  has  been  running  in  my  head  all  day. 
Look  here.  Here's  a  picture  of  two  Africans  suffer- 
ing from  it.    Do  they  just  sleep  away  like  that  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  so.  They  become  more  and  more 
lethargic,  probably,  until  at  last  they  cannot  be 
roused." 

"  How  long  are  they  in  that  condition  ?  " 

"  I  believe  for  weeks.  Poor  fellows ;  it  must  be 
ghastly  to  watch." 

"  There  is  no  cure.  There's  no  cure  for  a  lot  of 
things.  Tetanus,  leprosy,  cancer.  I  wonder  how 
it  begins.  You  wake  up  feeling  drowsy.  And  then 
to  feel  it  coming  on  ;  and  to  have  seen  others  ill 
with  it.     And  to  know  at  the  beginning  what  you 

119 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

will  have  to  go  through  and  become.  It  must  be 
ghastly." 

"  Here  is  tea,"  said  Leslie.  "  By  the  way,  sleep- 
ing sickness  must  be  getting  worse.  It  attacks 
Europeans  sometimes.  Mackenzie  said  that  in  his 
time  it  never  did." 

"  Well,"  said  Roger,  "  Europeans  have  given 
enough  diseases  to  the  Africans.  It  is  only  fair  that 
we  should  take  some  in  return." 

They  rode  on  slowly  in  the  bright  Irish  twilight. 
When  they  were  near  the  end  of  their  journey  they 
came  to  a  villa,  the  garden  of  which  was  shut  from 
the  road  by  a  low  hedge.  The  garden  was  full  of 
people.  Some  of  them  were  still  playing  croquet. 
Chinese  lanterns,  already  lit,  made  mellow  colour 
in  the  dusk.  A  black-haired,  moustachioed  man  with 
a  banjo  sat  in  a  deck-chair  singing.  The  voice  was 
a  fine  bass  voice,  somehow  familiar  to  Roger.  It 
was  wailing  out  the  end  of  a  sentimental  ditty  : 

"  O,  the  moon,  the  moon,  the  moon," 

in  which  the  expression  had  to  supply  the  want  of 
intensity  in  the  writing.  Hardly  had  the  singer 
whined  his  last  note  when  he  twanged  his  banjo 
thrice  in  a  sprightly  fashion.  He  piped  up  another 
ditty  just  as  the  cyclists  passed. 

*'  O,  I'm  so  seedy, 
So  very  seedy, 
I  don't  know  what  to  do. 
I've  consumption  of  the  liver 
And  a  dose  of  yellow  fever 
And  sleeping  sickness,  too. 
O,  my  head  aches 
And  my  heart  ..." 
1 20 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

The  banjo  came  to  ground  with  a  twang  :  the 
song  stopped. 

"  Fawcett !  "  the  singer  shouted  ;  "  Fawcett ! 
Come  in  here.    Where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  I  can't  stop,"  cried  Leslie,  over  his  shoulder. 
He  turned  to  Roger.    "  Let's  get  away,"  he  said. 

They  rode  hard  for  a  few  minutes.  "  Who  was 
that  ?  "  Roger  asked.  "  I  seemed  to  know  his 
voice." 

"  It's  a  man  called  Maynwaring,"  said  Leslie. 
"  I  don't  think  you've  met  him,  have  you  ?  He's 
in  the  Navy.  He  met  us  at  a  dance.  He  proposed 
to  Ottalie  about  a  year  ago.  Now  he  has  married 
one  of  those  pretty,  silly  doll-women,  a  regular 
officer's  wife.    They  are  not  much  liked  here." 

"  Curious,"  said  Roger  ;  "  he  was  singing  about 
sleeping  sickness.  Somehow,  I  think  I  must  have 
met  him.  His  voice  seems  so  familiar."  He  stopped 
suddenly,  thinking  that  the  voice  was  the  voice  of 
the  singer  in  his  dream.  "  Yes,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"Yes.    It  was." 

A  few  minutes  later  they  were  sliding  down  the 
long  hill  to  the  hotel. 


121 


VI 

Man  is  a  lump  of  earth,  the  best  man's  spiritless, 
To  such  a  woman. 

John  Fletcher. 

LONDON  was  too  full  o£  memories.  He  could 
J  not  get  away  from  them.  He  could  not 
empty  his  mind  sufficiently  to  plan  or  execute  new 
work.  He  was  too  near  to  his  misery.  He  had  been 
in  town,  now,  for  a  month  ;  but  he  had  done 
nothing.  He  was  engaged  daily  in  trying  to  realize 
that  his  old  life  had  stopped.  If  he  thought  at  all 
he  thought  as  those  stunned  by  grief  always  will, 
in  passages  of  poignant  feeling.  His  nights  were 
often  sleepless.  When  he  slept  he  often  dreamed 
that  he  was  alone  in  the  night,  looking  into  a  lit 
room  where  Ottalie  stood,  half-defined,  under  heavy 
robes.  Then  he  would  wake  with  a  start  to  realize 
that  he  would  never  see  any  trace  of  her  again, 
beyond  the  few  relics  which  he  possessed. 

Only  one  little  ray  of  light  gave  him  hope.  He 
wanted  to  rebuild  his  life  for  her.  He  wanted  to 
become  all  that  she  would  have  liked  him  to  become. 
In  any  case,  whatever  happened,  he  would  have  the 
memory  of  her  to  guide  him  in  all  that  he  did. 
But  he  felt,  every  now  and  then,  when  he  could 
feel  at  all  hopefully,  that  she  was  trying  to  help 
him  to  become  what  she  had  longed  for  him  to  be. 
He  thought  that  little  chance  happenings  in  life 

122 


MULTHUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

were  signals  from  her  in  the  other  world,  or,  if  not 
signals,  attempts  to  move  him,  attempts  to  make 
him  turn  to  her  ;  things  full  of  significance  if  only 
he  could  interpret  them.  He  felt  that  in  some  way 
she  was  trying  to  communicate.  It  was  as  though 
the  telephone  had  broken.  It  was  as  though  the 
speaker  could  not  say  her  message  directly  ;  but 
had  to  say  it  in  fragments  to  erring,  forgetful,  way- 
ward messengers,  who  forgot  and  lost  their  sequence. 
They  could  only  hint,  stammeringly,  at  the  secret 
revealed  to  them.  He  thought  that  she  had  sent 
him  some  message  about  sleeping  sickness,  using  the 
torn  page,  the  magazine,  and  the  naval  officer,  as 
her  messengers.  There  were  those  three  little  words 
from  her,  romantic,  like  words  heard  in  dream. 
If  they  were  not  from  her,  then  they  were 
none  the  less  holy,  they  were  intimately  bound 
with  his  last  memories  of  her.  Often  he  would 
cry  out  in  his  misery  that  she  might  be  granted 
to  come  to  him  in  dream  to  complete  her  mes- 
sage. What  did  she  want  to  say  about  sleeping 
sickness  ? 

He  could  not  guess.  He  could  only  say  to  him- 
self that  for  some  hidden  reason  that  disease  had 
been  brought  to  his  notice  at  a  time  when  he  was 
morbidly  sensitive  to  impressions.  He  spent  many 
hours  in  the  British  Museum  studying  that  disease 
as  closely  as  one  not  trained  to  medical  research 
could  hope  to  do.  He  read  the  Reports  of  the  Com- 
mission, various  papers  in  The  Lancet,  the  works  of 
Professor  Ronald  Ross  and  Sir  Patrick  Manson, 
the  summary  of  Low  in  Allbutt,  the  deeply  in- 
teresting articles  in  the  Journal  of  Tropical  Medicine, 

123 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

and  whatever  articles  he  could  find  in  reviews  and 
encyclopaedias. 

He  called  one  day  at  the  theatre  office  in  answer 
to  a  telegram  from  Falempin.  Falempin  had  some- 
thing to  say  to  him.  He  had  flung  down  the  glove 
to  the  "  peegs,"  he  said,  by  keeping  on  The  Roman 
Matron  for  the  usual  weekly  eight  performances,  in 
spite  of  the  Press  and  the  public  wrath.  For  three 
weeks  he  had  played  it  to  empty  or  abusive  houses. 
Then,  at  the  end  of  the  third  week,  a  man  had 
written  in  a  monthly  review  that  The  Roman  Matron 
was  the  only  play  of  the  year,  and  that  all  other 
English  plays  then  running  in  London  were  so  many 
symptoms  of  our  national  rottenness.  The  writer 
was  not  really  moved  by  The  Roman  Matron.  He 
was  a  town  wit,  trying  to  irritate  the  public  by 
praising  what  it  disliked,  and  by  finding  a  moral 
death  in  all  that  it  approved.  It  may  be  said  of 
such  that  they  cast  bread  upon  the  waters  ;  but 
the  genius,  as  a  rule,  does  not  find  it  until  many 
days.  In  this  case,  as  the  wit  was  at  the  moment  the 
fashion,  his  article  was  effectual  from  the  day  of 
its  publication.  The  actors  found  one  evening  an 
attentive,  not  quite  empty  house.  Three  nights 
later  the  piece  went  very  well  indeed.  On  the 
fourth  night  they  were  called.  By  the  end  of  the 
week  The  Roman  Matron  was  a  success,  playing  to  a 
full  house. 

"  Naldrett,"  said  Falempin,  "  I  'ave  lost  twelve 
thousand  pounds  over  your  play.  What  so  ?  I  go 
to  make  perhaps  forty  thousand.  Always  back  your 
cards.  The  peegs  they  will  eat  whatever  they  are 
told.      Some   of  the   papers   they   are   eating  their 

124 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

words.  You  see  ?  Here  ;  here  is  anozzer.  By  the 
same  men,  I  think.  Criticism  ?  Next  to  the  peegs, 
I  do  lof  the  critic.  It  hkes  not  me,  these  funny 
men.  What  is  the  EngHsh  people  coming  to  ?  You 
'ave  critics ;   you  'ave  very  fine  critics.    But  they 

'ave  no  power.     Zese  men  in  zese  gutter  rags 

Pah.  We  go  to  make  you  many  motor-cars  out  of 
zis  play." 

-  Leslie  brought  his  wife  to  town  a  week  later. 
She  wished  to  consult  an  oculist.  Roger  dined  with 
them  the  night  after  their  arrival. 

"  Roger,"  said  Leslie,  "  I  want  you  to  meet  my 
cousin,  Mrs.  Heseltine.  She  wants  you  to  dine 
with  her  to-morrow  night.  We  said  that  we  would 
bring  you  if  you  were  free.  I  hope  that  you  will 
come  ;    she's  such  a  splendid  person." 

Roger  said  that  he  would  go. 

That  evening  he  went  to  an  At  Home  given  in 
honour  of  a  great  French  poet  who  was  staying  in 
London.  He  had  no  wish  to  attend  the  function. 
He  went  from  a  sense  of  duty.  He  went  from  a 
sense  of  what  was  due  to  the  guardian  of  intellect. 
The  At  Home  was  in  Kensington,  in  a  big  and 
hideous  house.  A  line  of  carriages  stood  by  the 
kerb,  each  with  its  tortured  horses  tossing  their 
heads  piteously  against  the  bearing-reins.  Flunkeys 
with  white,  sensual  faces  stood  at  the  door.  There 
was  a  glitter  of  varnish  everywhere,  from  boots, 
carriages,  and  polished  metal.  There  was  not  much 
noise,  except  the  champ-champing  of  the  bits  and 
the  spattering  of  foam.  Carriage  doors  slammed 
from  time  to  time.  Loafers  insulted  those  who 
entered.    Women   and  children,    standing   by   the 

"5 


MULTHUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

strip  of  baize  upon  the  sidewalk,  muttered  in  awed 
hatred. 

Roger  went  into  a  room  jammed  with  jabberers. 
In  the  middle  of  the  room  there  was  a  kind  of  circle, 
a  sort  of  pugilists'  ring,  in  which  the  poet  stood. 
He  was  a  little  stocky  man,  powerfully  built.  He 
had  a  great  head,  poised  back  on  his  shoulders  so 
that  his  jaw  protruded  aggressively.  It  needed  only 
one  glance  to  see  that  he  was  the  one  vital  person 
in  the  room.  The  big,  beefy,  successful  English 
novelists  looked  hke  bladders  beside  him.  He  talked 
in  a  voice  which  boomed  and  rang.  People  crowded 
up.  Ladies  in  wonderful  frocks  broke  on  him,  as 
it  were,  in  successions  of  waves.  He  bowed,  he  was 
shaken  by  the  hand,  he  was  pulled  by  the  arm. 
Questions  and  compHments  and  platitudes  came 
upon  him  in  every  known  variety  of  indifferent 
French.  He  never  ceased  to  talk.  He  could  have 
talked  the  room  to  a  standstill,  and  gone  on  fresh 
to  a  dozen  like  it.  He  was  talking  wisely,  too. 
Roger  heard  half  of  one  booming  epigram  as  he 
caught  his  hostess'  eye.  She  was  bringing  up  relays 
of  platitudes  to  take  the  place  of  those  already  ex- 
ploded. His  host,  sawing  the  air  with  one  hand, 
was  expounding  something  which  he  couldn't 
explain.  Roger  saw  him  compHment  the  poet  for 
taking  his  point  without  exposition.  Exploded 
platitudes  ran  into  Roger  and  apologized.  Roger 
ran  into  platitudes  not  yet  exploded  and  apologized. 
There  was  a  gabble  everywhere  of  unintelligent 
talk,  dominating  but  not  silencing  the  great  voice. 
Roger  heard  an  elegant  young  man  speak  of  the 
poet  as  "  a  bounder,  an  awful  bounder."     Then 

126 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

somebody  took  him  by  the  arm.  Somebody  wanted 
to  talk  to  him.  He  said  his  say  to  the  great  man 
while  being  dragged  to  somebody.  Somebody  in  a 
strange  kind  of  chiton  below  a  strange  old  gold 
Greek  necklace  was  telling  him  about  The  Roman 
Matron.    Did  he  write  it  ? 

"  Yes,"  he  said.    "  I  wrote  it." 

The  hostess  interposed.  The  chiton  was  borne 
off  to  a  lady  in  Early  Victorian  dress.  A  little  grey 
man,  very  erect  and  wiry,  like  a  colonel  on  the  stage, 
bumped  into  Roger. 

"  Rather  a  crowd,  eh  ?  "  he  said,  as  he  apologized. 
"  Have  you  seen  my  wife  anywhere  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Roger.     "  Is  she  here  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  other.  "  I  beheve  she  is.  Aw- 
fully well  the  old  fellow  looks,  doesn't  he  ?  I  met 
him  in  Paris  in  1890." 

They  talked  animatedly  for  ten  minutes  about 
the  prospects  of  French  literature  as  compared 
with  our  own.  Presently  the  little  man  caught  sight 
of  his  wife.  He  nodded  to  Roger  and  passed  on. 
Roger  could  not  remember  that  he  had  ever  seen 
him  before. 

He  looked  about  for  someone  with  whom  to  talk. 
A  couple  of  novelists  stood  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  room  talking  to  a  girl.  There  was  not  much 
chance  of  getting  to  them.  He  looked  to  his  left 
hand,  where  some  of  the  waste  of  the  party  had 
been  drifted  by  the  tide.  He  did  not  know  any  of 
the  people  there.  He  was  struck  by  the  appearance 
of  a  young  man  who  stood  near  the  wall,  watching 
the  scene  with  an  interest  which  was  half  con- 
temptuous.   The  man  was,  perhaps,  thirty  years  of 

127 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

age.  What  struck  Roger  about  him  was  the  strange 
yellowness  of  his  face.  The  face  looked  as  though  it 
had  been  varnished  with  a  clear  amber  varnish. 
The  skin  near  the  eyes  was  puckered  into  crows'  feet. 
The  brow  was  wrinkled  and  seamed.  The  rest  of  the 
face  had  the  leanness  and  tightness  of  one  who  has 
lived  much  in  unhealthy  parts  of  the  tropics.  He 
was  a  big  man,  though  as  lean  as  a  rake.  Roger 
judged  from  his  bearing  that  he  had  been  a  soldier  ; 
yet  there  was  a  touch  of  the  doctor  about  him, 
too.  His  eyes  had  the  direct  questioning  look  of 
one  always  alert  to  note  small  symptoms,  and  to 
find  the  truth  of  facts  through  evasions  and  deceits. 
His  hands  were  large,  capable,  clinical  hands,  with 
long,  supple,  sensitive  fingers,  broad  at  the  tips. 
The  mouth  was  good-humoured,  but  marred  by 
the  scar  of  a  cut  at  the  left  corner. 

Presently  the  man  walked  up  to  Roger  with  the 
inimitable  easy  grace  which  is  in  the  movements 
of  men  who  live  much  in  the  open. 

"  Excuse  me,"  he  said  ;  "  but  who  is  the  poet 
in  the  middle  there  ?  " 

"  Jerome  Mongeron,"  said  Roger. 

"  Thanks,"  said  the  man,  retiring. 

Roger  noticed  that  the  man's  eyes  were  more 
bloodshot  than  any  eyes  he  had  ever  seen.  Soon 
after  that  Roger  saw  him  lead  an  elderly  lady, 
evidently  his  mother,  out  of  the  room.  As  he  felt 
that  he  had  bored  himself  sufhciently  in  homage  to 
the  man  of  intellect,  he  too  sHpped  away  as  soon  as 
he  could. 

The  night  following  he  dined  with  Mrs.  Hesel- 
tine.     She  was  an  elderly  lady,  fragile-looking,  but 

128 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

very  beautiful,  with  that  autumnal  beauty  which 
comes  with  the  beginning  greyness  of  the  hair. 
Her  face  had  the  fineness  of  race  in  it.  Looking  at 
her,  one  saw  that  all  the  unwanted,  unlovely 
elements  had  been  bred  away,  by  conscious  selec- 
tion, in  many  generations*  of  Fawcetts.  Her  face 
had  that  simple  refinement  of  feature  which  one 
sees  in  the  women's  faces  in  Holbein's  drawing  of 
Sir  Thomas  More's  family.  Only  in  Mrs.  Heseltine 
the  striving  for  rightness  and  fineness  had  been 
pushed  a  little  too  far  at  the  expense  of  the  bodily 
structure.  There  was  a  pathetic  drooping  of  the 
mouth's  corners,  and  a  wild-bird  look  in  the  eye 
which  told  of  physical  weakness  very  bravely  borne. 
Her  husband  was  a  brain  specialist. 

She  wore  black  for  her  niece.  There  were  few 
other  guests.  It  was  a  family  party.  There  were 
the  two  Heseltines,  their  cousins  the  Luscombes, 
the  two  Fawcetts,  Ethel  Fawcett  (another  cousin), 
a  woman  in  morning  dress  who  had  just  been  speak- 
ing at  a  suffrage  meeting,  Roger,  and  one  Lionel 
who  was  very  late.  They  waited  for  Lionel.  They 
were  sure  that  Lionel  would  not  be  long.  The 
suffrage  speaker.  Miss  Lenning,  asked  if  Lionel 
were  better.  Yes.  The  new  treatment  was  doing 
him  good.  They  were  hoping  that  he  would  get 
over  it.  Roger  started  when  Mrs.  Heseltine's  voice 
grew  grave.  There  were  notes  in  it  strangely  like 
Ottalie's  voice.  The  voice  reveals  character  more 
clearly  than  the  face,  more  clearly  than  it  reveals  char- 
acter, it  reveals  spiritual  power.  Until  he  heard  those 
grave  notes  he  had  not  seen  much  of  Ottalie  in  her, 
except  in  the  way  in  which  she  sat,  the  head  a  little 

K  129 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

drooped,  the  hands  composed,  in  a  pose  which  no 
art  could  quite  describe,  it  was  so  Kke  her.  The 
words  thrilled  through  him,  as  though  the  dead 
were  in  the  room  under  a  disguise.  There  was 
Leslie  looking  at  him,  with  grave,  kindly  delibera- 
tion, putting  up  his  glasses  to  Ottalie's  eyes  with 
Ottalie's  hand.  Ottalie's  voice  spoke  to  him  through 
Mrs.  Heseltine.  They  were  away  in  one  corner  of 
the  room  now,  looking  at  a  drawing. 

"  I  have  so  often  heard  of  you,"  she  was  saying. 
"  Somehow  I  always  missed  you  when  I  was  at 
Portobe.  But  I  have  heard  of  you  from  Leslie, 
and  from  poor  Ottalie.  I  wanted  to  see  you.  I 
have  been  waiting  to  see  you  for  the  last  month. 
I  wanted  to  tell  you  something  which  Ottalie  said 
to  me,  when  my  boy  was  killed  in  the  war.  She 
said  that  when  a  life  ended,  like  that,  suddenly  and 
incomplete,  it  was  our  task  to  complete  it,  for  the 
world's  sake,  in  our  own  lives."  She  paused  for  an 
instant,  and  then  added  :  "  I  have  tried  to  realize 
what  my  boy  would  have  done.  I  hope  that  you 
will  come  to  talk  to  me  whenever  you  like.  Ottalie 
was  very  dear  to  me.  She  was  in  this  room,  looking 
at  this  drawing,  only  seven  weeks  ago."  She  faltered 
for  a  moment. 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Heseltine  ?  "  he  said. 
"  Talking  about  you,"  she  added  gently. 
"  Mr.  Heseltine,"  said  the   maid,  opening   the 
door.    The  man  with  the  yellow  face  and  injected 
eyes  entered. 

"  Ah,  Lionel,"  said  Mrs.  Heseltine. 
"  I'm  awfully  sorry  I'm  so  late,"  he  said.  "  They've 
been  trying  a  new  cure  on  me.    It's  said  to  be  per- 

130 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

manent ;  but  they've  only  tried  it  on  one  other 
fellow  so  far.  I  wish  you  hadn't  waited  for  me." 
He  glanced  at  Roger  with  a  smile. 

"  D'you  know  Mr.  Heseltine,  Mr.  Naldrett  ?  " 

"  We  met  each  other  last  night,"  said  Roger. 
"  At  the  MacElherans'." 

"  Yes.     I  think  we  did,"  he  answered. 

Dinner  was  announced.  Roger  took  Miss  Len- 
ning.  Mrs.  Heseltine  sat  at  his  left.  Miss  Lenning 
was  a  determined  young  woman  with  no  nonsense 
about  her.     Roger  asked  if  her  speech  had  gone  well. 

"  Pretty  well,"  she  said.  "  I  was  on  a  wagon  in 
the  Park.  A  lot  of  loafers  rushed  the  wagon  once 
or  twice.  It's  the  sort  of  thing  London  loafers 
dehght  to  do." 

"  Yes,"  said  Roger.  "  That  is  because  the  part 
of  London  near  the  parks  is  not  serious.  It  is  a 
part  given  up  to  pleasure-mongers  and  their 
parasites.  The  crowds  there  don't  believe  in  any- 
thing, they  won't  help  anything,  they  can't  under- 
stand anything.  In  the  East  of  London  you  would 
probably  get  attention.  I  suppose  the  police 
sniggered  and  looked  away  ?  " 

"  You  talk  as  though  you  had  been  at  it  your- 
self," said  Miss  Lenning. 

"  Been  at  it  ?  Yes.  Of  course  I  have.  But  not 
very  much,  I'm  afraid.  I  used  to  speak  fairly 
regularly.  Then  at  your  big  meeting  in  the  Park 
I  got  a  rotten  egg  in  the  jaw,  which  gave  me  blood 
poisoning.  I  had  to  stop  then,  because  ever  since 
then  I've  been  behindhand  with  my  work.  A 
London  crowd  is  a  crowd  of  loafers  loafing.  But  a 
crowd  in  a  northern  city,  in  Manchester,  or  Leeds, 

131 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

or  Glasgow,  is  a  very  different  thing.  They  are 
a  different  stock.  They  are  working  men,  in- 
terested in  things.  Here  they  are  idlers  delighting 
in  a  chance  of  rowdyism.  They  are  without 
chivalry  or  decent  feeling.  They  go  to  boo  and 
jeer,  knowing  that  the  police  won't  stop  them.  I 
think  you  women  are  perfectly  splendid  to  do  what 
you  do,  and  have  done." 

"  Oh,  one  doesn't  mind  going  to  prison,"  said 
Miss  Lenning.  "  I've  been  three  times  now.  Be- 
sides, we  shall  know  how  to  reform  the  prisons  when 
we  get  the  vote.  What  makes  my  blood  boil  are 
the  insults  I  get  in  the  streets  from  the  sort  of  men 
whose  votes  are  responsible  for  disgraces  like  the 
war."  She  stopped.  "  What  is  your  line  ?  "  she 
asked. 

"  I'm  a  writer." 

"  Why  don't  you  write  a  play  or  a  novel  about 
us  ?" 

"  Because  I  don't  believe  in  mixing  art  with 
propaganda.  My  province  is  to  induce  emotion.  I 
am  not  going  to  use  such  talent  as  I  have  upon 
intellectual  puzzles  proper  to  this  time.  That  is 
the  work  of  a  reformer  or  a  leader-writer.  My 
work  is  to  find  out  certain  general  truths  in  nature, 
and  to  express  them,  in  prose  or  verse,  in  as  high 
and  living  a  manner  as  I  can.  That  seems  absurd 
to  you  ?  " 

"  Not  absurd  exactly,"  she  said,   "  but  selfish." 

"  You  think,  then,  that  a  man  who  passes  his 
life  in  trying  to  make  the  world's  thought  nobler, 
and  the  world's  character  thereby  finer,  must 
necessarily  be  selfish  ?  " 

132 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

"  Yes ;  I  do,"  she  said  firmly.  "  There  are  all 
you  writers  trying,  as  you  put  it,  to  make  the  world's 
thought  noble,  and  not  one  of  you — I  beg  your 
pardon,  only  three  of  you — Hft  a  finger  to  help  us 
get  the  vote.  You  don't  really  care  a  rush  about  the 
world's  thought.  You  care  only  for  your  own 
thought." 

"  And  your  own  thought  isn't  thought  at  all," 
said  Major  Luscombe  from  over  the  table.  "  I 
don't  mean  yours,  personally,  of  course.  I  like 
your  play  very  much.  But  taking  writers  generally 
throughout  the  world,  what  does  the  literary  mind 
contribute  to  the  world's  thought  now  ?  Can  you 
point  to  any  one  writer,  anywhere  in  the  world, 
whose  thoughts  about  the  world  are  really  worth 
reading  ?  " 

"  Yes.  To  a  good  many.  In  a  good  many 
countries,"  said  Roger. 

"  I  have  no  quarrel  with  art,"  said  Heseltine, 
taking  up  the  cudgels.  "  It  is  moral  occupation. 
But  I  feel  this  about  modern  artists,  that,  with  a 
few  exceptions,  they  throw  down  no  roots,  either 
into  national  or  private  life.  They  care  no  more 
for  the  State,  in  its  religious  sense,  than  they  care 
(as,  say,  an  Elizabethan  would  have  cared)  for  con- 
duct. They  seem  to  me  to  be  a  company  of  men 
without  any  common  principle  or  joint  enthusiasm, 
working,  rather  blindly  and  narrowly,  at  the  bidding 
of  personal  idiosyncrasy,  or  of  some  aberration  of 
taste.  A  few  of  you,  some  of  the  most  determined, 
are  interested  in  social  reform.  The  rest  of  you 
are  merely  photographing  what  goes  on  for  the 
amusement  of  those  who  cannot  photograph." 

133 


MULTITUDE    AND    SOLITUDE 

"  Yes,"  said  Roger.  "  At  present  you  are  con- 
demning modern  society.  When  you  were  a  boy, 
Dr.  Heseltine,  you  lived  in  an  ordered  world,  which 
was  governed  by  supernatural  religion,  excited  by 
many  material  discoveries,  and  kept  from  outward 
anxiety  by  prosperity  and  peace.  All  that  world  has 
been  turned  topsy-turvy  in  one  generation.  We 
are  no  longer  an  ordered  world.  I  believe  there  is 
a  kind  of  bacillus,  isn't  there,  which,  when  exposed 
to  the  open  air,  away  from  its  home  in  the  blood, 
flies  about  wildly  in  all  directions  ?  That  is  what 
we  are  doing.  A  large  proportion  of  English  people, 
having  lost  faith  in  their  old  ruler,  supernatural 
religion,  fly  about  wildly  in  motor-cars.  And,  un- 
fortunately, material  prosperity  has  increased  enor- 
mously while  moral  discipline  has  been  declining  ; 
so  that  now,  while  we  are,  perhaps,  at  the  height 
of  our  national  prosperity,  there  is  practically  no 
common  enthusiasm  binding  man  to  man,  spirit  to 
spirit.  It  is  difficult  for  an  artist  to  do  much  more 
than  to  reflect  the  moral  conduct  of  his  time,  and 
to  cleanse,  as  it  were,  what  is  eternal  in  conduct 
from  its  temporary  setting.  If  the  world  maintains, 
as  I  hold  that  it  does,  that  there  is  nothing  eternal, 
and  that  moral  conduct  consists  in  going  a  great 
deal,  very  swiftly,  in  many  very  expensive  motor- 
cars, with  as  many  idle  companions  as  possible,  then 
I  maintain  that  you  must  respect  the  artist  for 
standing  alone  and  working,  as  you  put  it,  '  rather 
blindly  and  narrowly,'  at  vv'hatever  protest  his 
personal  idiosyncrasy  urges  him  to  make." 

"  That's  just  what   I   was   saying,"   said   Major 
Luscombe.    "  I  was  dining  with  Sir  Herbert  Chard 

134 


MULTITUDE    AND    SOLITUDE 

last  night,  down  at  Aldersliot.  We  were  talking 
military  shop  rather.  About  conscription.  I  said 
that  I  thought  it  was  a  great  pity  that  universal 
discipline  of  some  kind  had  not  been  substituted 
for  the  old  moral  discipline,  which  of  course  we  all 
remember,  and  I  dare  say  were  the  last  to  get.  You 
can't  get  on  without  discipline." 

"  Ah,  but  that  is  preaching  militarism,"  said  Mrs. 
Heseltine  ;    "  and  preaching  it  insidiously." 

"  The  military  virtues  are  the  bed-rock  of 
character,"  said  the  Major. 

"  I  cannot  believe  that  character  is  taught  by 
drill-sergeants  and  subalterns,"  said  Mrs.  Hesel- 
tine. "  If  it  is  taught  at  all,  it  is  taught  (perhaps 
unconsciously)  by  fine  men  and  women  ;  and  to 
some  extent  by  the  images  of  noble  character  in 
works  of  art.  I  see  no  chance  of  moral  regeneration 
in  conscription,  only  another  excuse  for  vapouring, 
and  for  that  kind  of  casting  off  of  judgment  and 
responsibility  which  goes  under  the  name  of 
patriotism." 

"  I  would  rather  establish  a  compulsory  study  of 
Equity,"  said  Roger.  "  Then  nations  might  judge 
a  casus  belli  justly,  on  its  merits,  instead  of  accepting 
the  words  of  newspapers  inspired  by  unscrupulous 
usurers,  as  at  present.  A  few  unprincipled  men, 
mostly  of  the  lowest  kind  of  commercial  Jew,  are 
able  to  run  this  country  into  war  whenever  they 
like.  And  the  Briton  believes  himself  to  be  a  level- 
headed business  man." 

"  If  that  is  the  case,"  said  the  Major  trium- 
phantly, "  it  proves  my  point.  If  we  are  likely  to  go 
to  war,  we  ought  to  be  prepared  for  war.    And  we 

I3S 


MULTHUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

can  only  be  prepared  if  we  establish  conscription. 
And  if  we  are  not  prepared,  we  shall  cease  as  a 
nation.  It  is  your  duty,  as  an  English  writer,  to 
awaken  the  national  conscience  by  a  play  or 
novel,  so  that  when  the  time  comes  we  may  be 
prepared." 

"  My  duty  is  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  Roger. 
"  I  believe  war  to  be  a  wasteful  curse  ;    and  the 
preparation  for  war  to  be  an  even  greater  curse, 
and  infinitely  more  wasteful.     I  am  not  a  patriot, 
remember.     My  State  is  mind.    The  human  mind. 
I  owe  allegiance  to  that  first.     I  am  not  going  to 
set    Time's    clock    back    by    preaching   war.      War 
belongs   to   savages   and   to   obsolete   anachronisms 
like  generals.     You   think  that  that   is   decadence. 
That  I  am  a  weak,  spiritless,  httle-Englander,  who 
will  be  swept  away  by  the  first  '  still,  strong  man  ' 
who  comes  along  with  '  a  mailed  fist.'     Very  well. 
I   have   no   doubt   that   brute   force   can   and   will 
sweep  away  most  things  not  brutal  like  itself.     It 
may  sweep  me  away.     But  I  will  not  disgrace  my 
century  by  preaching  the  methods  of  Paleolithic 
man.     If  you  want  war,  go  out  and  fight  waste.     I 
suppose  that  two  hundred  and  fifty  milhon  pounds 
are  flung  away  each  year  on  drink  and  armaments 
in  this  country  alone.     I  suppose  that  in  the  same 
time    about    five    hundred    pounds    are    spent    on 
researches  into  the  causes  of  disease.     About  the 
same  amount  is  given  away  to  reward  intellectual 
labours.     I  mean  labours  not  connected  with  the 
improvement  of  beer  or  dynamite.     Such  labours 
as  noble  imaginings  about  the  world  and  life."    He 
looked  at  Miss  Lenning,  whose  eye  was  kindling. 

136 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

No  one  who  has  dabbled  in  poHtics  can  resist 
rhetoric  of  any  kind. 

"  You  send  women  to  prison  for  wanting  to 
control  such  folly,"  he  went  on.  "  Doesn't  he, 
Miss  Lenning  ?  If  I  am  to  become  a  propagandist, 
I  will  do  so  in  the  cause  of  liberty  or  knowledge. 
I  would  write  for  Miss  Lenning,  or  for  Dr.  Hesel- 
tine  there,  but  for  a  military  man,  who  merely  wants 
food  for  powder,  for  no  grand,  creative  principle,  I 
would  not  write  even  if  the  Nicaraguans  were 
battering  St.  Paul's." 

"  Some  day,"  said  Mrs.  Heseltine,  "  we  may  be- 
come great  enough  to  give  up  all  this  idea  of 
Empire,  and  set  out,  like  the  French,  to  lead  the 
world  in  thought  and  manners.  We  might  achieve 
something  then.  France  was  defeated.  She  is  now 
the  most  prosperous  and  the  most  civilized  country 
in  the  world." 

"  And  the  least  vital."  said  the  Major's  wife. 

"  But  what  do  you  mean  by  vital  ?  "  said  Roger, 
guessing  that  she  was  repeating  a  class  catch-word. 
"  Vitality  is  shewn  by  a  capacity  for  thought." 

Maggie  Fawcett  interposed.  "  It's  a  very  curious 
state  of  things,"  she  said.  "  The  intellect  of  the 
world  is  either  trading,  fighting  for  trade,  or  pre- 
paring to  fight  for  trade.  It  is,  in  any  case,  pursuing 
a  definite  object.  But  the  imagination  of  the  world 
is  engaged  in  finding  a  stable  faith  to  replace  the 
old  one.  It  is  wavering  between  science  and  super- 
stition, neither  of  which  will  allow  a  compromise. 
You,  Mr.  Naldrett,  if  you  will  excuse  my  saying  so, 
belong  to  the  superstition  camp.  You  believe  that 
a  man  is  in  a  state  of  grace  if  he  goes  to  a  tragedy, 

137 


MUL7HUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

and  can  tell  a  Francesca  from  a  Signorelli.  I  belong 
to  the  science  camp,  and  I  believe  that  that  camp 
is  going  to  win.  It's  attracting  the  better  kind  o£ 
person  ;  and  it  has  an  enthusiasm  which  yours 
has  not.  You  are  looking  for  an  indefinite,  rare, 
emotional  state,  in  which  you  can  apprehend  the 
moral  relations  of  things.  We  are  looking  for  the 
material  relations  of  things  so  that  the  rare  emo- 
tional state  can  be  apprehended,  not  by  rare, 
peculiar  people,  such  as  men  of  genius,  but  by 
everybody." 

"  What  you  had  better  do,"  said  Dr.  Heseltine, 
"  is,  give  up  all  this  '  obsolete  anachronism  '  of  art. 
Science  is  the  art  of  the  twentieth  century.  You 
cannot  paint  or  write  in  the  grand  manner  any 
longer.  That  has  all  been  done.  Men  like  you 
ought  to  be  stamping  out  preventable  disease.  In- 
stead of  that,  you  are  writing  of  what  Tom  said 
to  James  while  Dick  fell  in  the  water.  With  a 
fortieth  part  of  what  is  wasted  annually  on  the 
army  alone,  I  would  undertake  to  stamp  out  phthisis 
in  these  islands.  With  another  fortieth  part  there 
is  very  little  doubt  that  cancer  could  be  stamped 
out  too.  With  another  fortieth  part,  wisely  and 
scientifically  administered  without  morbid  senti- 
ment, we  could  stamp  out  crime  and  other  mental 
diseases." 

"  The  motor-car  and  golf,  for  instance  ?  "  said 
Ethel  Fawcett. 

"  Yes.  And  betting,  '  sport,'  war,  idleness,  drink, 
vice,  tobacco,  tea,  all  the  abominations  of  life.  All 
the  reversions  to  incompleted  types.  You  ought 
to  write  a  play  or  a  novel  on  these  things.    I'm  not 

138 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

speaking  wildly.  I'm  speaking  o£  a  proved  scientific 
possibility  o£  relative  human  perfection.  When  life 
has  been  made  glorious,  as  I  can  see  that  it  could  be 
made,  then  you  artists  could  set  to  work  to  decorate 
it  as  much  as  you  like." 

"  So,  then,"  said  Roger,  "  there  are  three  ways 
to  perfection,  by  admitting  women  to  the  suffrage, 
by  driving  men  into  the  army,  and  by  substituting 
the  College  of  Surgeons  for  the  Government.  Now 
an  artist  is  concerned  above  all  things  with  moral 
ideas.  He  is  not  limited,  or  should  not  be,  to  par- 
ticular truths.  His  world  is  the  entire  world, 
reduced,  by  strict  and  passionate  thinking,  to  its 
imaginative  essence.  You  and  your  schemes,  and 
their  relative  importance,  are  my  study,  and,  when 
I  have  reduced  them  to  the  ideas  of  progress  which 
they  embody,  my  material.  I  think  that  you  have 
all  made  the  search  for  perfection  too  much  a 
question  of  profession.  It  is  not  a  question  of 
profession.  It  is  a  question  of  personal  charac- 
ter." After  a  short  pause  he  went  on.  "  At  the 
same  time,  there  is  nothing  the  man  of  thought 
desires  so  much  as  to  be  a  man  of  action.  English 
writers  (I  suppose  from  their  way  of  bringing  up) 
have  been  much  tempted  to  action.  Byron  went 
liberating  Greece.  Chaucer  was  an  ambassador, 
Spenser  a  sort  of  Irish  R.M.,  Shakespeare  an  actor- 
manager  and  money-lender,  or,  as  some  think,  the 
Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer.  Writing  alone  is  not 
enough  for  a  man." 

Leslie,  who  had  been  chatting  to  Ethel  Fawcett, 
looked  at  Roger  without  speaking.  Dinner  came 
slowly  to  an  end.    The  ladies  left  the  room.     The 

139 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

men  settled  into  their  chairs.  Dr.  Heseltine  moved 
the  port  to  Lionel,  with,  "  I  suppose  you're  not 
allowed  this  ?  " 

Lionel  refused  the  port,  smiling.  He  put  a  white 
tabloid  into  a  Uttle  soda-water  and  settled  into  the 
chair  next  to  Roger.  He  pulled  out  his  cigarette 
case.  "  Will  you  smoke  ?  "  he  asked.  "  These  are 
rather  a  queer  kind." 

"  No,  thanks,"  said  Roger.    "  I've  given  it  up." 

"  I^  don't  think  I  could  do  that,"  said  Lionel, 
selecting  a  strange-looking  cigarette  done  up  in 
yellow  paper,  with  twisted  ends.  "  I  smoke  a  good 
deal.  When  one's  alone  one  wants  tobacco  ;  one 
gets  into  the  way  of  it." 

He  ht  a  cigarette  with  a  brown  hand  which 
trembled.  Roger,  noticing  the  tremor,  and  the 
redness  of  the  man's  eyes,  wondered  if  he  were 
a  secret  drinker.  "  Are  you  much  alone  ?  "  he 
asked. 

"  A  good  deal,"  Lionel  answered.  "  I've  just 
been  reading  a  book  by  you  ;  it's  called  The  Handful 
I  think  you  wrote  it,  didn't  you  ?  So  you've  been 
in  the  tropics,  too  ?  " 

"  I  went  to  stay  with  an  uncle  at  Behze,  five 
years  ago,"  said  Roger.  "  I  only  stayed  for  about 
a  month." 

"  Behze,"  said  Lionel.  "  My  chief  was  in  Belize. 
Was  there  any  yellow  fever  there,  when  you  were 
there  ?  " 

"  There  was  one  case,"  said  Roger. 

"  Did  you  see  it  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Roger  ;   "  I  didn't." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  yellow  fever,"  said  Lionel 


140 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

simply.     "  I  suppose  there  was  a  good  deal  of  fuss 
directly  this  case  occurred  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Roger.  "  A  gang  came  round  at 
once.  I  think  they  put  paraffin  in  the  cisterns. 
They  sealed  the  infected  house  with  brown  paper 
and  fumigated  it." 

"  And  that  stopped  it  ?  " 

"  Yes.    There  were  no  other  cases." 

"  It's  all  due  to  a  kind  of  mosquito,"  said  Lionel. 
The  white-ribbed  mosquito.  He  carries  the  organ- 
ism. You  put  paraffin  on  all  standing  puddles  and 
pools  to  prevent  the  mosquito's  larvae  from  hatching 
out.  My  old  chief  did  a  lot  of  work  in  Havana,  and 
the  West  Indies,  stampin'  out  yellow  fever.  It 
has  made  the  Panama  Canal  possible." 

"  Are  you  a  doctor,  then,  may  I  ask  ?  "  said 
Roger. 

"  No,"  said  Lionel.  "  I  do  medical  research 
work  ;  but  I  don't  know  much  about  it.  I  never 
properly  quahfied.  I'm  interested  in  all  that  kind 
of  thing." 

"  What  medical  research  do  you  do  ?  Would  it 
bore  you  to  tell  me  ?  " 

"  I've  been  out  in  Uganda,  doing  sleeping  sick- 


ness." 


"  Have  you  ?  "  said  Roger.  "  That's  very  in- 
teresting. I've  been  reading  a  lot  of  books  about 
sleeping  sickness." 

"  Are  you  interested  in  that  kind  of  thing  ?  " 
Lionel  asked. 

"  Yes." 

"  If  you  care  to  come  round  to  my  rooms  some 
time  I  would  shew  you  some  relics.    I  live  in  Pump 

141 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

Court.  I'm  generally  in  all  the  morning,  and  be- 
tween four  and  six  in  the  evening.  I  could  shew 
you  some  trypanosomes.    They're  the  organisms." 

"  What  are  they  like  ?  "  Roger  asked. 

"  They're  like  little  wriggly  flattened  membranes. 
Some  of  them  have  tails.  They  multiply  by  longi- 
tudinal division.  They're  unlike  anything  else. 
They've  got  a  pretty  bad  name." 

"  And  they  cause  the  disease  ?  " 

"  Yes.  You  know,  of  course,  that  they  are  spread 
by  the  tsetse  fly  ?  The  tsetse  fly  sucks  them  out 
of  an  infected  fish  or  mammal,  and  develops  them, 
inside  his  body  probably  for  some  time,  during 
which  the  organism  probably  changes  a  good  deal. 
When  the  tsetse  bites  a  man,  the  developed  trypano- 
some  gets  down  the  proboscis  into  the  blood.  About 
a  week  after  the  bite,  when  the  bite  itself  is  cured, 
the  man  gets  the  ordinary  trypanosome  fever, 
which  makes  you  pretty  wretched,  by  the  way." 

"  Have  you  had  it  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  rather.  I  have  it  now.  It  recurs  at 
intervals." 

"  And  how  about  sleeping  sickness  ?  " 

"  You  get  sleeping  sickness  when  the  trypanosome 
enters  the  cerebro-spinal  fluid.  You  may  not  get 
it  for  six  or  seven  years  after  the  bite.  On  the  other 
hand,  you  may  get  it  almost  at  once." 

"  Then  you  may  get  it  ?  "  said  Roger,  startled, 
looking  at  the  man  with  a  respect  which  was  half  pity. 

"  I've  got  it,"  said  Lionel. 

"  Got  it  ?  You  ?  "  said  Roger.  He  stumbled  in 
his  speech.  "  But,  forgive  my  speaking  like  this," 
he  said  ;   "  is  there  a  cure,  then  ?  " 

142 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

"  It's  not  certain  that  it's  a  permanent  cure," 
said  Lionel.  "  I've  just  started  it.  It's  called 
atoxyl.  Before  I  tried  atoxyl  I  had  another  thing 
called  trypanroth,  made  out  of  anihne  dye.  It 
has  made  my  eyes  red,  you  see  ?  Dyed  them.  You 
can  have  'em  dyed  blue,  if  you  prefer.  But  red  was 
good  enough,  I  thought.  Now  I'm  afraid  I'm 
talking  rather  about  myself." 

"  No,  indeed  ;  I'm  intensely  interested,"  said 
Roger.  "  Tell  me  more.  Tell  me  about  the  sick- 
ness in  Uganda.    Is  it  really  bad  ?  " 

"  Pretty  bad,"  said  Lionel.  "  I  suppose  that  a 
couple  of  hundred  thousand  men  and  women  have 
died  of  it  during  the  last  seven  years.  I  don't  know 
how  many  animals  besides.  The  tsetse  will  bite  pretty 
nearly  every  living  thing,  and  everything  it  bites  gets 
disease  of  some  sort.  You  see,  trypanosomiasis  is 
probably  a  new  thing  in  Uganda.  New  diseases  are 
often  very  deadly,  I  believe." 

"  Is  the  tsetse  migrating,  then,  or  can  the  thing 
be  conveyed  by  contagion  ?  " 

"  No.  I  don't  think  it's  a  contagious  thing.  I 
should  say  it  almost  certainly  isn't.  It  needs  direct 
inoculation.  And  as  far  as  we  know  the  tsetse 
keeps  pretty  near  to  one  place  all  through  its  life." 

"  I  know  a  writer  who  claims  that  we  are  spread- 
ing it.    Is  that  so  ?  " 

"  Indirectly.  You  see,  East  Africa  is  not  like 
America  or  any  other  horse  country.  You  haven't 
got  much  means  of  transport,  except  bearers,  unless 
you  go  by  river,  and  even  then  you  may  have  to 
make  portages.  Going  with  natives  from  one 
district  to  another  is  sure  to  spread  the  infection. 

143 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

When  infected  people  come  to  a  healthy  district, 
their  germs  are  sure  to  be  inoculated  into  the  healthy 
by  some  tick  or  bug,  even  if  there  are  no  tsetses  to 
do  it.  I  believe  there  are  trypanosomes  in  the  hut- 
bugs.  I  don't  know,  though,  that  hut-bugs  are 
guiltier  than  any  other  kind.  It's  impossible  to  say. 
From  the  hour  you  land  until  the  hour  you  sail, 
you  are  always  being  bitten  or  stung  by  something. 
Bugs,  ticks,  fleas,  lice,  mosquitoes,  tsetses,  ants, 
jiggers,  gads,  hippos,  sandflies,  wasps.  You  put  on 
oil  of  lavender,  if  you  have  any.  But  even  with 
that  you  are  always  being  bitten." 

"  And  what  is  the  tsetse  bite  like  ?  " 

"  You've  been  to  Portobe,  haven't  you  ?  I  re- 
member Ottalie  Fawcett  speaking  of  you,  years  ago, 
before  I  went  out.  You  had  that  cottage  at  the 
very  end  of  the  loaning,  just  above  the  sea  ?  Well. 
Did  you  ever  go  on  along  the  cliff  from  there  to  a 
place  where  you  have  to  climb  over  a  very  difficult 
barbed-wire  fence  just  under  an  ash-tree  ?  I  mean 
just  before  you  come  to  a  nunnery  ruin,  where  there 
is  a  little  waterfall  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Roger.  "  I  know  the  exact  spot. 
There  used  to  be  a  hawk's  nest  in  the  cliff  just  below 
the  barbed  wire." 

"  Well,  just  there,  there  are  a  lot  of  those  reddy- 
grey  flies  called  clegs.  You  get  them  going  up  to 
Ess-na-Lara.  That's  another  place.  They  bite  the 
horses.  You  must  have  been  bitten  by  them.  Well, 
a  tsetse  is  not  much  like  a  cleg  to  look  at.  It's 
duller  and  smaller.  It's  likest  to  a  house-fly,  ex- 
cept for  the  wings,  which  are  unlike  any  other 
kind  of  insect  wings.     It  comes  at  you  not  unhke  a 

144 


MUL1HUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

cleg.  You  know  how  savage  a  cleg  is  ?  He  dashes  at 
you  without  any  pretence.  He  only  feints  when 
he  is  just  going  to  land.  And  he  follows  you  until 
you  kill  him.  A  tsetse  is  like  that.  He'll  follow 
you  for  half  a  mile,  giving  you  no  peace.  Like  a 
cleg,  he  settles  down  on  you  very  gently,  so  that 
you  don't  notice  him.  You'll  remember  the 
mosquitoes  at  Belize.  Mosquitoes  are  like  that. 
Then,  when  he  has  sucked  his  fill  and  unscrewed  his 
gimlet,  you  feel  a  smarting  itch,  and  see  your  hand 
swollen.  If  you  are  not  very  well  at  the  time  a 
tsetse  bite  can  be  pretty  bad.  If  you'll  come  to 
my  rooms  some  time  I'll  shew  you  some  tsetse. 
They're  nothing  to  look  at.  They're  very  like 
common  house-flies." 

"  And  you  have  been  studying  all  this  on  the 
spot  ?    Will  you  tell  me  what  made  you  take  to  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  was  always  interested  in  that  kind  of 
thing.  I've  always  liked  hot  climates,  and  being  in 
wild,  lonely  places.  And  then  my  old  chief  was  a 
splendid  fellow.  He  made  me  interested.  I  got 
awfully  keen  on  it.  I  want  to  go  out  again.  You 
know,  I  want  to  get  at  the  bottom  of  the  trypano- 
some.  His  life-history  isn't  known  yet,  as  we  know 
the  cycle  of  the  malaria  parasite.  We  don't  even 
know  what  it  is  in  him  which  causes  the  disease. 
And  we  don't  know  very  much  really  about  the 
tsetse,  nor  what  part  the  tsetse  plays  in  the 
organism's  life.  There's  a  lot  which  I  should  like 
to  find  out,  or  try  to  find  out.  It's  the  trying  which 
gives  one  the  pleasure." 

"  But  I  think  it's  heroic  of  you,"  said  Roger. 
"  Are  there  many  of  you  out  there,  doing  this  ?  " 

L  145 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

"  Not  very  many." 

"  It's  a  heroic  thing  to  do,"  said  Roger.  "  Heroic. 
The  lonehness  alone  must  make  it  heroic." 

"  You  get  used  to  the  lonehness.  It  gives  you 
nerves  at  first.  But  in  my  opinion  the  heat  keeps 
you  from  thinking  much  about  the  loneliness.  I 
hke  heat  myself,  but  it  takes  it  out  of  most  of  the 
griffs.    The  heat  can  be  pretty  bad." 

"  All  the  same,  it  is  a  wonderful  thing  to  do." 

"  Yes.  It's  a  good  thing  to  spot  the  cause  of  a 
disease  like  that.  But  you  over-rate  the  heroic 
part.  It's  all  in  the  day's  work.  One  takes  it  as  it 
comes,  and  one  has  a  pretty  good  time,  too.  One 
never  thinks  of  the  risk,  which  is  really  very  slight. 
Doctors  face  worse  things  in  London  every  day. 
So  do  nurses.  A  doctor  was  telhng  me  only  the 
other  day  how  a  succession  of  nurses  went  down  to 
a  typhus  epidemic  and  died  one  after  the  other. 
There's  nothing  hke  that  in  the  Protectorate  with 
sleeping  sickness." 

"  But  being  the  only  white  man,  away  in  the 
wilds,  with  the  natives  dying  all  round  you !  " 

"  Yes.  That  is  pretty  bad.  I  was  in  the  middle 
of  a  pretty  bad  outbreak  in  a  little  place  called 
Ikupu.  It  was  rather  an  interesting  epidemic,  be- 
cause it  happened  in  a  place  where  there  weren't 
any  of  the  tsetse  which  is  supposed  to  do  the  harm. 
They  may  have  been  there  ;  but  I  couldn't  find 
any.  It  must  have  been  another  kind  which  did  the 
damage  at  Ikupu.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  did  find 
trypanosomes  in  another  kind  there,  which  was 
rather  a  feather  in  my  cap.  Well,  I  was  alone  there. 
My  assistant  died  of  black-water  fever.     And  there 

146 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

I  was  with  a  sleeping  village.  There  were  about 
twenty  cases.  Most  of  the  rest  of  the  natives  ran 
away,  and  no  doubt  spread  the  infection.  Those 
twenty  cases  were  pretty  nearly  all  the  society  at 
Ikupu.  Some  were  hardly  ill  at  all.  They  just  had 
a  little  fever,  perhaps,  or  a  skin  complaint  on  the 
chest,  and  tender,  swollen  glands.  Others  were 
just  as  bad  as  they  could  be.  They  were  in  all  stages 
of  the  disease.  Some  were  just  beginning  to  mope 
outside  their  huts.  Others  were  sitting  still  there, 
not  even  caring  to  ask  for  food,  just  moping  away 
to  death,  with  their  mouths  open.  Generally,  one 
gets  used  to  seeing  that  sort  of  thing  ;  but  I  got 
nerves  that  time.  You  see,  they  were  rather  a 
special  tribe  at  Ikupu.  They  called  themselves 
Obmali,  or  some  such  name.  Their  lingo  was  rather 
rummy.  Talking  with  the  chief  I  got  the  impression 
that  they  were  the  relics  of  a  tribe  which  had  been 
wiped  out  further  west.  They  believed  that  sleep- 
ing sickness  was  caused  by  a  snake-woman  in  a 
swampy  part  of  the  forest.  Looking  after  all  those 
twenty  people,  and  taking  tests  from  them,  gave  me 
fever  a  good  deal.  That  is  one  thing  you  have  to 
get  used  to — fever.  You  get  used  to  doing  your 
work  with  a  temperature  of  one  hundred  and  two 
degrees.  It's  queer  about  fever.  Any  start,  or 
shock,  or  extra  work,  may  bring  it  on  you.  I  had 
it,  as  I  said,  a  good  deal.  Well,  I  got  into  the  way 
of  thinking  that  there  was  a  snake-woman.  A 
woman  with  a  puff-adder  head,  all  mottled.  I  used 
to  barricade  my  hut  at  night  against  her." 

Dr.  Heseltine  drew  his  chair  up.    "  What  are  you 
two  discussing  ?    Talking  about  sleeping  sickness  ?  " 

147 


MULTITUDE    AND    SOLITUDE 

he  asked.  "  How  does  the  new  treatment  suit  you, 
Lionel  ?  No  headache,  I  hope  ?  It's  apt  to  make 
you  headachy.  There's  a  subject  for  a  play  for  you, 
Mr.  Naldrett.  '  Man  and  the  Trypanosome.'  You 
could  bring  the  germs  on  to  the  stage,  and  kill  them 
off  with  a  hypodermic  syringe." 

"  Yes,"  said  Roger.  "  It  has  all  the  requirements 
of  a  modern  play  :  strength,  silence,  and  masculinity. 
There's  even  a  happy  ending  to  it." 

Lionel  began  to  talk  to  Dr.  Heseltine.  Roger 
crossed  the  room  to  talk  to  Leslie.  He  heard  Lionel 
saying  something  about  "  waiting  to  give  the 
monkey  a  chance."  He  did  not  get  another  talk 
with  Lionel  that  night.  After  they  joined  the 
ladies,  Ethel  Fawcett  sang.  She  had  a  good,  but 
not  very  strong  voice.  She  sang  some  Schumann 
which  had  been  very  dear  to  Ottalie.  Her  voice 
was  a  little  Hke  Ottahe's  in  the  high  notes.  It 
haunted  Roger  all  the  way  home,  and  into  his  lonely 
room.  Sitting  down  before  the  fireplace  he  had  a 
sudden  vision  of  drenching  wet  grass,  and  a  tangle  of 
yellowing  honeysuckle,  heaped  over  a  brook  which 
gurgled.  For  an  instant  he  had  the  complete 
illusion  of  the  smell  of  meadowsweet,  and  Ottalie 
coming  singing  from  the  house,  so  sharply  that  he 
gasped. 


148 


VII 

Sweet  virgin  rose,  farewell.      Heaven  has  thy  beauty, 

That's  only  fit  for  Heaven.     I'll  live  a  little, 

And  then,  most  blessed  soul,  I'll  climb  up  to  thee. 

Farewell.  The  Slight  fValker ;  or,  The  Little  Thief. 

THE  next  morning  he  found  upon  his  plate  a 
letter  in  a  strange  hand.  The  writing  was 
firmly  formed,  but  ugly.  The  letters  had  a  way  of 
lying  down  upon  each  other  towards  the  end  of  each 
word.  It  was  not  a  literary  hand.  It  was  from 
Lionel  Heseltine. 


(I 


"400A,  Pump  Court,  Temple. 
Dear  Mr.  Naldrett  (it  ran), 

If  you  would  like  to  see  my  relics,  will 
you  come  round  next  Thursday  to  my  rooms 
between  4  and  5  ?  You  will  see  my  name  on 
the  doorpost  outside.  I  am  up  at  the  top. 
Your  best  way  would  be  Underground  to 
the  Temple,  and  then  up  Middle  Temple 
Lane.  If  the  Lane  door  is  shut  you  will  have 
to  go  up  into  the  Strand  and  then  round.  I 
hope  you  will  be  able  to  come. 

"  Yours  sincerely, 

"  Lionel  Heseltine." 

He  replied  that  he  would  gladly  join  him  there 
on  Thursday.  He  wished  that  Thursday  were  not 
still  six  days  away.  He  was  drawn  to  all  these 
people  who  had  known  Ottalie.     They  were  parts 

149 


MULTITUDE    AND    SOLITUDE 

of  her  life.  He  realized  now  how  much  people 
must  be  in  a  woman's  Hfe.  A  man  has  work,  and 
the  busy  interests  created  by  it.  A  woman  has 
friends  and  the  emotions  roused  by  them.  This 
world  of  Ottalie's  friends  was  new  to  him.  He 
tried  to  look  upon  them  as  she  would  have  looked 
upon  them.  These  had  known  her  intimately 
since  her  childhood.  They  had  been  in  her  mind 
continually.  She  had  Hved  with  them.  He  had 
often  felt  vaguely  jealous  of  them,  when  he  had 
heard  her  talk  of  them  with  Agatha  ;  or  if  not 
jealous,  sad,  that  he  should  not  have  access  to  that 
side  of  her. 

He  was  drawn  to  them  all,  but  Lionel  attracted 
him  the  most  strongly.  Some  of  his  hking  for 
Lionel  was  mere  instinctive  recognition  of  an  in- 
herent fineness  and  simplicity  in  the  man's  character. 
But  there  was  more  than  that.  He  had  often  felt 
that  in  life,  as  in  nature,  there  is  a  constant  effort 
to  remedy  the  unnatural.  The  inscrutable  agency 
behind  life  offers  always  wisely  some  restoration  or 
readjustment  of  a  balance  disturbed.  He  felt  that 
a  tide  had  quickened  in  his  life,  at  the  last  ebbing  of 
the  old.  In  the  old  life  all  had  been  to  please 
Ottalie.  Life  was  more  serious  now.  He  could 
not  go  back  all  at  once  to  a  life  interrupted  as  his 
had  been.  Life  was  not  what  he  had  thought  it. 
In  the  old  days  it  had  sufficed  to  brood  upon 
beautiful  images,  till  his  mind  had  reflected  them 
clearly  enough  for  his  hand  to  write  down  their 
evocative  symbols.  He  was  not  too  young  to  perceive 
the  austerer  beauty  in  the  room  of  life  beyond  the 
room  in  which  youth  takes  his  pleasure.     But  so  far 

ISO 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

his  life  had  been  so  httle  serious  that  he  had  lacked 
the  opportunity  of  perceiving  it.    Now  the  old  world 
of  the  beauty  of  external  image,  well-defined  and 
richly  coloured,  was  shattered  for  him.     He  saw 
how  ugly  a  thing  it  was,   even  as  a  plaything  or 
decoration,  beside  the  high  and  tragical  things  of 
life  and  death.     It  was  his  misfortune  to  have  lived 
a  life  without  deep  emotions.     Now  that  sorrows 
came  upon  him  together,  smiting  him  mercilessly, 
it  was  his  misfortune  to  be  without  a  friend  capable 
of  realizing  what  the  issue  warring  in  him  meant. 
O'Neill  had  sent  him  a  note  from  Ubrique  in  Anda- 
luz,  asking  him  to  order  a  supply  of  litharge  for  his 
experiments,    which    were    "  wonderful."     Pollock 
had    sent    him    a    note    from    Lyme,    repaying, 
"  with    many,    many    thanks,"    the    loan    of    fifty 
guineas.     His  "  little  girl  was  very  well,  and  Kitty 
was   wonderful."     Besides    these   two   he   had   no 
other  intimate  friends.     Leslie,  a  much  finer  person 
than  either  of  them,  might  have  understood  and 
helped  his   mood  ;    but  Leslie  had  been  away  in 
Ireland  since  the  first  fortnight.     Being,  therefore, 
much  alone  in  his  misery,  Roger  had  come  to  look 
upon    himself    in    London    as    the    one    sentient, 
tortured  thing  in  a  callous   ant-swarm.      He  was 
shrinking  from  the  sharp  points  of  contact  with 
the  world  on  to  still  sharper  internal  points  of  dis- 
satisfaction with  himself.     It  was,  therefore,  natural 
that  he  should  be  strongly  attracted  by  a  man  who 
carried  a  mortal  disease,  with  a  grave  and  cheerful 
spirit,  serenely  smiling,  able,  even  in  this  last  mis- 
fortune, to  feel  that  life  had  been  ordered  well,  in 
accordance  with  high  law.     The  more  he  thought 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

of  Lionel,  the  more  he  came  to  envy  that  hfe  of 
mingled  action  and  thought  which  had  tempered 
such  a  spirit.  In  moments  of  self-despising  he  saw, 
or  thought  that  he  saw,  this  difference  between  their 
lives.  He  himself  was  like  an  old  king  surprised  by 
death  in  the  treasure-house.  He  had  piled  up  many 
jewels  of  many-gleaming  thought ;  he  was  robed 
in  purple  ;  his  brain  was  heavy  from  the  crown's 
weight.  And  all  of  it  was  a  heavy  uselessness.  He 
could  take  away  none  of  it.  The  treasure  was  all 
dust,  rust,  and  rags.  He  was  a  weak  and  fumbling 
human  soul  shut  away  from  his  bright  beloved,  not 
only  by  death,  but  by  his  own  swaddled  insufficiency. 
Lionel,  on  the  other  hand,  was  a  crusader,  dying 
outside  the  Holy  City,  perhaps  not  in  sight  of  it, 
but  so  fired  with  the  idea  of  it  that  death  was  a 
little  thing  to  him.  All  his  life  had  been  death  for 
an  idea.  All  his  life  had  made  dying  easier. 
Roger's  tortured  mind  was  not  soothed  by  thinking 
how  their  respective  souls  would  look  after  death. 
Some  men  laid  up  treasures  in  heaven,  others  laid 
up  treasures  on  earth.  The  writer,  doubting  one 
and  despising  the  other,  laid  up  treasures  in  limbo. 
He  began  to  understand  O'Neill's  remark  that  it 
was  "  the  most  difficult  thing  in  the  world  for  an 
artist  both  to  do  good  work  and  to  save  his  own 
soul."  Little,  long-contemned  scraps  of  medieval 
theology,  acquired  in  the  emotional  mood  during 
which  he  had  been  pre-Raphaelite,  appealed  to  him 
again,  suddenly,  as  not  merely  attractive  but  wise. 
Often,  at  times  of  deep  emotion,  in  the  fear  of 
death,  the  mind  finds  more  significance  in  things 
learned  in  childhood  than  in  the  attainments  of 

152 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

maturity.  This  emotion,  the  one  real  passionate 
emotion  of  his  Hfe,  had  humbled  him.  Life  had 
suddenly  shewn  itself  in  its  primitive  solemnity. 
The  old  life  was  all  ashes  and  whirling  dust.  He 
understood  something,  now,  of  the  conflict  going 
on  in  life.  But  he  understood  it  quakingly,  as  a 
prophet  hears  the  voice  in  the  night.  He  saw  his 
own  soul  shrivelling  like  a  leaf  in  the  presence  of 
a  great  reality.  He  had  to  stablish  that  soul's 
foundations  before  he  could  sit  down  again  to 
work.  The  artist  creates  the  image  of  his  own  soul. 
When  he  sees  the  insufficiency  of  that  soul,  he  can 
either  remedy  it  or  take  to  criticism. 

Thinking  over  the  talk  of  the  night  before,  he 
wondered  at  the  train  of  events  which  had  altered 
the  course  of  his  thinking.  Lionel,  a  few  weeks 
before,  would  have  been  to  him  a  charming,  in- 
teresting, but  misguided  man,  wandering  in  one  of 
those  sandy,  sonorously  named  Desarts  where 
William  Blake  puts  Newton,  Locke,  and  those 
other  fine  intellects,  with  whom  he  was  not  in 
sympathy.  Now  he  saw  that  Lionel  was  ahead  of 
him  on  the  road.  Thinking  of  Lionel,  and  wishing 
that  he,  too,  had  done  something  for  his  fellows,  he 
traced  the  course  of  a  tide  of  affairs  which  had  been 
setting  into  his  mind.  It  had  begun  with  that 
blowing  paper  in  the  garden,  as  a  beginning  tide 
brings  rubbish  with  it.  Now  it  was  in  full  flood 
with  him,  lifting  him  over  shallows  where  he  had 
long  lain  grounded.  He  began  to  doubt  whether 
literature  was  so  fine  a  thing  as  he  had  thought. 
Science,    so    cleanly   and   fearless,    was    doing   the 

153 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

poet's  work,  while  the  poet,  taking  his  cue  from 
Blake,  maligned  her  with  the  malignity  of  ignorance. 
What  if  poetry  were  a  mere  antique  survival,  a 
pretty  toy,  which  attracted  the  fine  mind,  and  held 
it  in  dalliance  ?  There  were  signs  everywhere  that 
the  day  of  belles-lettres  was  over.  Good  intellects 
were  no  longer  encouraged  to  write,  "  pricked  on  by 
your  popes  and  kings."  More  than  that,  good  in- 
tellects were  less  and  less  attracted  to  literature. 
The  revelation  of  the  age  was  scientific,  not  artistic. 
He  tried  to  formulate  to  himself  what  art  and 
science  were  expressing,  so  that  he  might  judge  be- 
tween them.  Art  seemed  to  him  to  be  taking  stock 
of  past  achievement,  science  to  be  on  the  brink  of 
new  revelations. 

He  knew  so  little  of  science  that  his  thought  of  it 
was  little  more  than  a  consideration  of  sleeping  sick- 
ness. He  reviewed  his  knowledge  of  sleeping  sick- 
ness. He  thought  of  it  no  longer  as  an  abstract  in- 
tellectual question,  but  as  man's  enemy,  an  almost 
human  thing,  a  pestilence  walking  in  the  noonday. 
Out  in  Africa  that  horror  walked  in  the  noonday, 
stifling  the  brains  of  men.  It  fascinated  him.  He 
thought  of  the  little  lonely  stations  of  scientists 
and  soldiers,  far  away  in  the  wilds,  in  the  midst  of 
the  disease,  perhaps  feeling  it  coming  on,  as  Lionel 
must  have  felt  it.  They  were  giving  up  their  lives 
cheerily  and  unconcernedly  in  the  hope  of  saving 
the  lives  of  others.  That  was  a  finer  way  of  living 
than  sitting  in  a  chair,  writing  of  what  Dick  said  to 
Tom  when  Joe  fell  in  the  water.  He  went  over  in 
his  mind  the  questions  which  science  had  to  solve 
before    the    disease    could    be    stamped    out.     He 

1 54 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

wondered  if  there  were  in  the  Hterary  brain  some 
quickness  or  clearness  which  the  scientific  brain 
wanted.  He  wondered  i£  he  might  solve  the 
questions.  Great  discoveries  are  made  by  dis- 
coverers, not  always  by  seekers.  What  was  mys- 
terious about  the  sleeping  sickness  ? 

A  little  thought  reduced  his  limited  knowledge 
to  order.  The  disease  is  spreading  eastwards  from 
the  West  Coast  of  Africa  between  i6°  north  and 
1 6°  south  latitude,  keeping  pretty  sharply  within  the 
thirty-two  degrees,  north  and  south.  It  is  caused 
by  an  organism  called  a  trypanosome,  which  enters 
the  blood  through  the  probosces  of  biting  flies.  It 
kills,  when  the  organism  enters  the  cerebro-spinal 
fluid.  So  much  was  sure.  He  could  not  say  with 
certainty  why  the  disease  is  spreading  eastwards,  nor 
why  the  trypanosome  causes  it,  nor  how  the  fly 
obtains  the  trypanosome,  nor  what  happens  to  the 
trypanosome  in  the  fly's  body.  His  ignorance  thus 
resolved  itself  into  four  heads. 

As  to  the  spreading  of  the  disease  eastwards, 
Lionel,  who  had  lived  in  the  country,  might  know 
a  reason  for  it.  He  would  at  least  have  heard 
what  the  natives  and  the  older  settlers  thought. 
Residents'  reasons  generally  range  from  stories  of 
snake-headed  women  in  the  swamp,  to  tales  of  a 
queer  case  of  gin,  or  of  "  European  germs  changed 
by  the  climate."  The  simple  explanation  was  that 
in  mid-Africa  human  communications  are  more 
frequent  from  the  west  to  the  east  than  from  the 
east  to  the  west.     The  Congo  is  the  highway. 

He  knew  that  the  trypanosome  is  carried  by  the 
wild  game.     In  long  generations  of  suffering  the 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

African  big  game  has  won  for  itself  the  power  of 
resisting  the  trypanosomes.  Although  the  trypano- 
somes  abound  in  their  blood,  the  wild  animals  do 
not  develop  "  nagana  "  or  "  surra,"  the  diseases 
which  the  tsetse  bite  sets  up  in  most  domestic 
animals.  Something  has  been  bred  into  their  beings 
which  checks  the  trypanosome's  power.  The 
animals  are  immune,  or  salted.  But  although  they 
are  immune,  the  wild  animals  are  hosts  to  the  try- 
panosome.  In  the  course  of  time,  when  they 
migrate  before  the  advance  of  sportsmen,  or  in 
search  of  pasture,  into  tsetse  country  as  yet  unin- 
fected with  trypanosome,  the  tsetses  attacking  them 
suck  the  infected  blood,  and  receive  the  organisms 
into  their  bodies.  Later  on,  as  they  bite,  they  trans- 
fer the  organisms  to  human  beings,  who  develop  the 
disease.  Plainly,  a  single  migratory  animal  host,  or 
a  single  infected  slave,  suffering  from  the  initial 
feverish  stages,  might  travel  for  three  or  four 
months,  infecting  a  dozen  tsetses  daily,  along  his 
line  of  march.  One  man  or  beast  might  make  the 
route  dangerous  for  all  who  followed.  Roger  remem- 
bered how  the  chigoe  or  jigger-flea  had  travelled  east 
along  the  Congo,  to  establish  itself  as  an  abiding 
pest  wherever  there  was  sand  to  shelter  it. 

As  to  the  action  of  the  trypanosome  upon  the 
human  being,  that  was  a  question  for  trained 
scientists.  It  probably  amounted  to  little  more 
than  a  battle  with  the  white  corpuscles. 

He  passed  the  next  few  days  at  the  Museum, 
studying  the  disease. 

Mrs.  Holder,  who  did  for  Lionel,  let  him  in  to 
Lionel's  rooms  on  Thursday.     "  Mr.  Heseltine  was 

156 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

expecting  him,  and  would  be  in  in  a  minute.  Would 
he  take  a  seat  ?  "     He  did  so.     The  rooms  were  the 
top  chambers  o£  a  house  in  Pump  Court.     They 
were  nice  light    airy  chambers,  sparely  furnished. 
The  floor  was  covered  with   straw-matting.     The 
chairs  were  deck-chairs.     There  were  a  few  books 
on  a  bookshelf.     Most  of  them  were  bound  files 
of  the  Lancet  and  British  Medical  Journal.     A  few 
were  medical  books,   picked  up  cheap  at  second- 
hand shops,  as  the  price  labels  on  the  backs  testified. 
The  rest  were  mostly  military  history  :    The  Jena 
Campaign  ;  Hoenig's  Twenty-four  Hours  of  Moltke^s 
Strategy ;      Meckel's     Tactics    and     Sommernacht^ s 
Traum ;     Chancellorsville ;     Colonel    Henderson's 
Life  of  Stonewall  Jackson  ;   Essays  on  the  Science  of 
War  and  Spicheren  ;  Wolseley's  Life  of  Marlborough; 
Colonel  Maude's  Leipzig  ;  Stoflel's  contribution  to 
the  Vie  de  Jules  Cesar  ;  a  battered  copy  of  Mahan's 
War  of  1812  ;  and  three  or  four  small  military  text- 
books on  Reco7inaissance,  Minor  Tactics,  Infantry 
Formations,  etc.     A  book  of  military  memoirs  lay 
open,  face  downwards,  in  a  deck-chair.     It  was  a  hot 
July  day,  but  the  fire  was  not  yet  out  in  the  grate. 
On  the  mantelpiece  were  some  small  ebony  curios 
inlaid   with   mother-of-pearl.     Above   the    mantel 
were  a  few  pipes,  spears,  and  knobkerries,  a  warrior's 
Colobus-monkey  head-dress  and  shield,  from  Masai- 
land,  a  chased  brass  bracket-dish  (probably  made 
in    England)    containing    cigarette-butts,    and    a 
small,    but    very    beautiful    Madonna    and    Child, 
evidently  by  Correggio.     It  was  dirty,  cracked,  and 
badly  hung,  but  it  was  still  a  noble  work.     Lionel, 
coming  in  abruptly,  found  Roger  staring  at  it. 

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MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

"  I  hope  you've  not  been  waiting,"  he  said. 
"  I've  been  to  see  my  monkey.  Are  you  fond  of 
pictures  ?  That's  said  to  be  a  rather  good  one. 
It's  by  a  man  called  Correggio.  Do  you  know  his 
work  at  all  ?  It's  rather  dingy.  Do  you  like 
lemon  or  milk  in  your  tea  ?  Lemon  ?  You  hke 
lemon,  do  you  ?  Right.  And  will  you  wait  a 
minute  while  I  give  myself  a  last  dose  ?  " 

"  Can  I  help  you  ?  "  Roger  asked.  "  It's  hypo- 
dermic, isn't  it  ?  " 

"  Would  you  mind  ?  You  shove  the  snout  of  the 
thing  into  my  arm,  and  push  the  squirt.  It  won't 
take  a  minute."  He  shewed  Roger  into  a  Spartan 
bedroom,  furnished  with  a  camp-bed  and  a  San- 
dow's  exerciser. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  producing  a  bottle  and  a 
syringe,  "  first  I'll  roll  up  my  sleeve,  and  then  I'll 
shew  you  how  to  sterihze  the  needle.  I  suppose 
you've  never  done  this  kind  of  thing  before  ?  Now, 
jab  it  in  just  here  where  all  the  punctures  are." 

"  You  said  it  was  your  last  dose,"  said  Roger. 
"  Does  that  mean  that  you  are  cured  ?  " 

"  Cured  for  the  time.  I  may  get  a  relapse.  Still, 
that  isn't  likely." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  you  are  cured  ?  Do 
you  feel  better  ?  " 

"  I  don't  get  insomnia,"  said  Lionel.  "  No. 
They  inject  bits  of  me  into  a  monkey,  and  then 
wait  to  see  if  the  monkey  develops  the  organism. 
The  monkey's  very  fit  indeed,  so  they  reckon  that 
I'm  cured.  Thanks.  That'll  do.  Now  I  hear 
tea  coming.  Go  on  in,  will  you  ?  I'll  be  out  in  a 
minute.     I  must  get  out  my  slides." 

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MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

After  tea  they  looked  at  relics,  to  wit,  tsetse-flies, 
butterflies,  biting  flies,  fragments  of  the  same, 
sections  of  them,  slides  of  trypanosomes,  slides  of 
filaria,  slides  of  Laverania.  "  I've  got  these  photo- 
graphs, too,"  said  Lionel.  "  They  aren't  very 
good  ;  but  they  give  you  an  idea  of  the  place. 
This  lot  are  all  rather  dark.  I  suppose  they  were 
over-exposed.  They  shew  you  the  sort  of  places 
the  tsetse  likes.  The  hut  in  this  one  is  a  native 
hut.  I  lived  in  it  while  I  was  out  there  the  last 
time.     I  was  studying  the  tsetse's  ways." 

"  They're  always  near  water,  aren't  they  ?  " 
Roger  asked. 

"  Yes,  generally  near  water.  They  keep  to  a 
narrow  strip  of  cover  by  the  side  of  a  lake  or 
stream.  They  don't  like  to  go  very  far  from  water 
unless  they  are  pursuing  a  victim.  In  fact,  you're 
perfectly  safe  if  you  avoid  fly-country.  If  you  go 
into  fly-country,  of  course  they  come  for  you. 
They'll  hunt  you  for  some  way  when  you  leave  it. 
They  like  a  shady  water  with  a  little  sandy  shady 
beach  at  the  side.  They  like  sand  or  loose  soil 
better  than  mud.  Mud  breeds  sedge,  which  they 
don't  care  about.  They  like  a  sort  of  scrubby 
jungle.  One  or  two  trees  attract  them  especially. 
Here's  a  tree  where  about  a  dozen  natives  got 
it  together  merely  from  taking  their  siesta 
there." 

"  Does  clearing  the  jungle  do  any  good  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes.  It  clears  the  flies  out  of  that  particu- 
lar spot.  But  it  scatters  them  abroad.  It  doesn't 
destroy  them.  It  doesn't  destroy  the  pupae,  which 
are  buried  under  the  roots  in  the  ground.     Burning 

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MULTHUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

is  better,  perhaps.     Burning  may  do  for  the  pupae, 
but  then  it  doesn't  affect  the  grown  flies." 

"  Tell  me,"  said  Roger,  "  is  blood  necessary  to  the 
tsetse  ?  " 

"  I  wish  I  knew." 

"  I've  been  thinking  about  the  spread  of  the 
disease.  Is  it  caused  by  game,  by  slave-raiders,  or 
by  ivory-hunters  ?     How  is  it  spread  ?  " 

"  We  don't  know.  It  seems  to  have  followed 
the  opening  up  of  the  Congo  basin  to  trade.  The 
game  are  reservoirs,  of  course." 

"  Have  the  natives  any  cure  ?  " 

"  None.  They  have  a  disinfectant  for  their 
cattle.  They  boil  up  some  bitter  bark  with  one 
dead  tsetse  and  make  the  cattle  drink  the  brew. 
Then  they  fumigate  the  cattle  with  bitter  smoke. 
They  go  through  this  business  when  they  are  about 
to  trek  cattle  through  fly-country.  They  travel  at 
night,  because  the  flies  don't  bite  after  dark.  But 
the  fumigation  business  is  really  useless." 

"  The  tsetse  is  useless,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  All  flies  are  useless." 

"  I  like  the  ladybird  and  the  chalk-blue  butter- 
fly." 

"  I  see  you're  a  sentimentalist.  You  might  keep 
those.  But  all  the  rest  I  would  wipe  out  utterly. 
I  wish  that  we  could  wipe  out  the  tsetse  as  easily  as 
one  can  wipe  out  the  germ-carrying  mosquitoes." 

"  Has  it  been  tried  ?  " 

"  No.  Well.  It  may  have  been.  But  in  the 
mosquito  there  is  a  well-marked  grub  stage,  and  in 
the  tsetse  there  isn't.  It  is  so  difficult  to  get  at  the 
chrysahds  satisfactorily." 

1 60 


MULTHUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

"  What  do  the  tsetses  live  upon  ?  Do  you  mind 
all  my  questions  ?  " 

"  No.  Go  ahead.  But  it  must  be  rather  boring 
to  you.  They  live  on  anything  they  can  get,  like 
the  commissioners  who  study  them." 

"  But  why  do  they  live  near  water  ?  " 

"  Oh,  that  ?  Some  think  that  they  suck  the 
crocodiles  ;  but  the  general  opinion  is  that  they  go 
for  air-breathing,  fresh-water  fish.  The  theory  is 
this.  In  the  dry  season  the  fish  have  very  little 
water.  The  rivers  dry  up,  or  very  nearly  dry  up. 
I'm  not  talking  of  rivers  like  the  Zambesi  and  the 
Congo,  of  course.  Well.  They  dry  up,  leaving 
water-courses  of  shallow  pools  joined  together  by 
trickles.  The  fish  are  perfectly  horrible  creatures. 
They  burrow  into  the  mud  of  the  shallows,  and 
stay  there  till  the  rains.  I  suppose  they  keep  their 
snouts  out  of  the  mud,  in  order  to  breathe.  It 
is  thought  that  the  tsetses  feed  upon  their  snouts. 
It  may  not  be  true.  Jolly  interesting  if  it  is,  don't 
you  think  ?  Look  here,  excuse  me  if  I  smoke. 
Tell  me.  What  is  it  which  interests  you  so  much 
in  sleeping  sickness  ?  It  seems  so  queer  that  you 
should  be  interested." 

"  I  met  with  accounts  of  it  not  long  ago,  at  a  time 
when  various  causes  had  made  me  very  sensitive  to 
impressions.  I  don't  know  whether  you  ever  feel 
that  what  is  happening  to  you  is  part  of  a  great 
game  divinely  ordained  ?  " 

Lionel  shook  his  head.  His  look  became  a  shade 
more  medical. 

"  Well.  It  sounds  foohsh,"  said  Roger.  "  But 
I  was  impressed  by  the  way  in  which  sleeping  sick- 

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MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

ness  was  brought  to  my  notice  again  and  again. 
So  I  studied  it,  as  well  as  one  so  ignorant  of  science 
could.  I  am  interested  now,  because  you've  been 
there  and  seen  it  all.  It  is  always  very  interesting 
to  hear  another  man's  life-experience.  But  it  is 
more  than  that.  The  disease  must  be  one  of  the 
most  frightful  things  of  modern  times.  I  think  it 
splendid  of  you  to  have  gone  out,  as  you  have,  to 
study  it  for  the  good  of  mankind." 

"  That  was  only  self-indulgence,"  said  Lionel. 
"  It's  queer  that  you  should  be  interested.  You're 
the  only  person  I've  met  yet  since  I  came  back  who 
is  really  interested.  Of  course,  the  doctors  have 
been  interested.  But  I  beUeve  that  most  Londoners 
have  lost  the  faculty  for  serious  mental  interest.  It 
has  been  etiolated  out  of  them.  They  like  your 
kind  of  thing,  '  sugar  and  spice  and  all  things  nice.' 
They  hke  catchwords.  They  don't  study  hard  nor 
get  at  the  roots  of  things.  I  met  a  Spaniard  the 
other  day,  Centeno,  a  chemist,  I  don't  mean  a 
druggist.  He  said  that  we  had  begun  to  wither  at 
the  top." 

"  I  don't  agree,"  said  Roger.  "  Spain  is  too 
withered  to  judge.  Our  head  is  as  sound  oak  as 
it  always  was.  Were  you  ever  a  soldier,  Hesel- 
tine  ?  " 

"  Yes,  in  a  sort  of  a  way.  I  was  in  the 
militia." 

"  Did  you  want  to  be  a  soldier  ?     Why  did  you 

leave  it  ?  " 

"  It  isn't  a  life,  unless  you're  on  a  General  Staff. 
Everybody  ought  to  be  able  to  be  a  soldier  ;  I 
beUeve  that ;   but  it  doesn't  seem  to  me  to  go  very 

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MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

far  as  a  life's  pursuit.  One  can  only  become  a  good 
soldier  by  passing  all  one's  days  in  fighting.  That 
doesn't  lead  to  anything.  I  would  like  best  of  all 
to  be  a  writer,  only,  of  course,  I  can't  be.  I 
haven't  got  the  brains.  I  suppose  you'll  say  they're 
not  essential." 

"  They  are  essential,  and  you've  probably  got 
as  many  as  any  writer  ;  but  writing  is  an  art,  and 
success  in  art  depends  on  all  sorts  of  subtle,  in- 
stantaneous relations  between  the  brain's  various 
faculties  and  the  hand.  Are  you  really  serious, 
though  ? " 

"  Yes.  I'd  give  the  world  to  be  able  to  write. 
To  write  poetry.  Or  I'd  like  to  be  able  to  write  a 
play.  You  see,  what  I  believe  is,  that  this  generation 
is  full  of  all  sorts  of  energy  which  ought  not  to  be 
applied  to  dying  things.  I  would  like  to  write  a 
poem  on  the  right  application  of  energy.  That  is 
the  important  thing  nowadays.  The  English  have 
lots  of  energy,  and  so  much  of  it  is  wasted.  The 
energy  wasted  is  just  so  much  setting  back  the  clock. 

The  energy  wasted  at  schools   alone If  I'd 

not  been  a  juggins  at  school,  I'd  have  been  fully 
qualified  by  this  time,  and  been  able  to  get  a 
lot  more  fun  out  of  things,  finding  out  what 
goes  on.  Don't  you  find  writing  awfully  inter- 
esting ?  " 

"  I  find  it  makes  the  world  more  interesting. 
Writing  lets  one  into  life.  But  when  I  meet  a  man 
like  yourself  I  realize  that  it  isn't  a  perfect  life  for 
a  man.  It  isn't  active  enough.  It  doesn't  seem  to 
me  to  exercise  enough  of  the  essential  nature. 
Have  you  ever  tried  to  write  ?     I  expect  you  have 

163 


MULTHUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 


written  a  lot  of  splendid  things.     Will  you  shew  me 
what  you  have  written  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  said  Lionel,  "  I've  only  written  a  few 
sonnets  and  things.  Out  there  alone  at  night  when 
the  lions  are  roaring,  you  can't  help  it.  They  used 
to  roar  all  round  me.  I  was  only  in  a  native  hut. 
It  gives  one  a  solemn  feeling.  I  used  to  make  up 
verses  every  night." 

"  Have  you  got  any  ?  Won't  you  read  them  to 
me  ?  " 

"  You  can  look  at  them  if  you  like,"  said  Lionel, 
blushing  under  his  tan.  Like  most  Englishmen, 
he  was  a  little  ashamed  of  having  any  intelligence 
at  all.  He  pulled  out  a  little  penny  account-book 
from  the  drawer  under  the  bookshelf.  "  They're 
pretty  bad,  I  expect." 

Roger  looked  at  them. 

"  They're  not  bad  at  all,"  he  said.  "  You've  got 
something  to  say.  You  haven't  got  much  ear  ;  but 
that's  only  a  matter  of  training.  People  can  ahvays 
write  well  if  they  are  moved  or  interested.  Great 
writing  happens  when  a  carefully  trained  technician 
undergoes  a  deep  emotion,  or,  still  better,  has  sur- 
vived one.     Have  you  written  prose  at  all  ?  " 

"  No.  Prose  is  much  more  difficult.  I  never 
know  when  to  stop." 

"  Nor  do  I.  Prose  becomes  hard  directly  one 
begins  to  make  it  an  art  instead  of  a  second 
nature." 

He  wanted  to  talk  with  Lionel  about  Portobe. 
He  was  in  that  mood  in  which  the  wound  of  a  grief 
aches  to  be  stricken.  He  wanted  to  know  what 
Lionel  had  said  to  Ottalie,  and  what  she  had  said  to 

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MULTHUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

him.  He  had  that  feehng  which  sometimes  comes 
to  one  in  London.  "  Here  you  are,  in  London, 
before  me.  And  you  have  been  in  such  a  place  and 
such  a  place,  where  I  myself  have  been,  and  you 
have  talked  with  people  known  to  me.  How 
wonderful  life  is !  "  To  his  delight,  Lionel  began 
to  talk  about  Ireland  unprompted. 

"  I  wish  I  could  write  prose  like  yours,"  he  said. 
"  It  was  your  prose  first  made  me  want  to  write. 
I  was  stopping  with  the  Fawcetts  at  Portobe.  It 
was  the  year  before  Leslie  married,  just  before  I 
went  to  India,  to  do  Delhi-sore.  Ottalie  had  just 
got  that  book  you  wrote  about  the  Dall.  You'd 
sent  it  to  her.  That  was  a  fine  book.  I  liked  your 
little  word-pictures." 

"  I  am  sorry  you  liked  that  book.  It  is  very  crude. 
I  remember  Ottalie  was  down  on  me  for  it." 

"  Ottalie  was  a  fine  person,"  said  Lionel.  "  She 
had  such  a  delicate,  quick  mind.  And  then.  I 
don't  know.  One  can't  describe  a  woman.  A  man 
does  things  and  defines  himself  by  doing  them,  but 
a  woman  just  is.  Ottalie  just  was ;  but  I  don't 
know  what  she  was.  I  think  she  was  about  the 
finest  thing  I've  ever  seen." 

"  Yes,"  said  Roger,  moistening  dry  lips.  "  She 
was  like  light." 

"  What  I  noticed  most  about  her,"  said  Lionel, 
taking  on  now  the  tone  of  a  colonial  who  has  lived 
much  away  from  the  society  of  women,  "  was  her 
fineness.  She  did  things  in  a  way  no  other  woman 
could.  When  I  came  back  from  the  East,  and 
went  to  see  her — of  course  I  used  to  go  to  Portobe 
fairly  often  when  Leslie  was  there — it  was  like  being 

i6s 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

with  someone  from  another  world.  She  was  so  full 
of  fun,  too.  She  had  a  way  of  doing  things  simply. 
I'm  not  good  at  describing  ;  but  you  know  how 
some  writers  write  a  thing  easily  because  they  know 
it  to  the  heart.  Ottalie  Fawcett  seemed  to  do 
things  simply,  because  she  understood  them  to  the 
heart,  by  intuition." 

"  Yes,"  said  Roger.  "  I  shall  always  be  proud  to 
have  lived  among  a  race  which  could  bear  such  a 
person." 

"  She  must  be  a  dreadful  loss,"  said  Lionel,  "  to 
anybody  who  knew  her  well.  I'm  afraid  you  knew 
her  well.  I  used  to  think  of  her  when  I  was  in 
Africa.     She  was  wonderful." 

"  She  was  a  wonderful  spirit,"  Roger  answered. 
"  Tell  me.  I  seem  to  know  you  very  well,  although 
I  have  hardly  met  you.  I  don't  even  know  if  your 
people  are  alive.     Is  your  mother  living  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Lionel.  "  You're  thinking  of  my  old 
aunt  who  was  at  the  At  Home  with  me.  I  was 
stopping  with  her  for  a  few  days,  before  she  left 
town.     My  people  are  dead." 

"  Are  you  thinking  of  going  out  again  to  Africa 
to  examine  sleeping  sickness  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Lionel.  "  I  want  to  go  soon.  I 
want  to  go  in  the  rains,  so  that  I  can  test  a  native 
statement,  that  the  rains  aggravate  the  disease  and 
tend  to  bring  it  out  where  it  is  latent.  I  believe  it 
is  all  nonsense.  Natives  observe,  but  never  deduce. 
Still,  one  ought  to  know." 

"  Would  you  go  alone  ?  " 

"  I  should  go  out  alone,  I  suppose.  There  are 
lots  of  men  who  would  come  with  me  to  shoot  lions, 

1 66 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

but    tiypanosomes    are    less    popular.     You    don't 
bring  back  many  trophies  from  trypanosomes,  ex-- 
cept  a  hanging  jaw  and  injected  eyes." 

"  Are  the  rains  very  unhealthy  ?  " 

"  Yes.  If  they  bring  out  the  latent  disease,  they 
do  so  by  lowering  the  constitution.  But  I  don't 
believe  that  they  do  anything  of  the  kind.  Still, 
the  natives  say  that  they  can  bring  out  nagana  in  a 
bitten  cow  by  pouring  a  bucket  of  water  over  her." 

"  Look  here,"  said  Roger,  "  I  don't  want  you  to 
decide  definitely  till  you  know  me  better.  I  know 
how  risky  a  thing  it  is  to  choose  a  companion  for  a 
journey  into  the  wilderness,  or  for  any  undertaking 
of  this  kind.  But  I  am  dissatisfied  with  my  work. 
I  can't  tell  you  more.  I  don't  think  that  my  work 
is  using  enough  of  me,  or  letting  me  grow  up  evenly. 
Besides,  for  other  reasons,  I  want  to  give  up  writing. 
I  am  deeply  interested  in  your  work,  and  I  should 
like  to  join  you,  if  you  would  let  me,  after  you 
know  me  better.  I  have  a  theory  which  I  should 
like  to  work  out." 

"  It  would  be  very  nice,"  said  Lionel.  "  I  mean 
it  would  be  very  nice  for  me.  But  it  means  pretty 
severe  work,  remember.  And  then,  how  about 
scientific  training  ?  I'm  not  properly  qualified 
myself  ;  but  I've  been  at  this  game  for  seven  years, 
and  I  had  a  hard  year's  training  under  my  old  chief, 
Sir  Patrick  Hamlin.  I  began  by  doing  First  Aid 
and  Bearer-Party  in  camp.  Then,  when  I  gave  up 
soldiering,  I  got  a  job  on  famine  relief  in  India. 
Then  old  Hamlin  took  me  under  his  wing,  and  got 
me  to  help  with  the  plague  at  Bombay,  and  so  I 
went  on,  learning  whatever  I  could.     I  was  very 

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MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

lucky.  I  mean,  I  was  able  to  learn  a  good  deal, 
being  always  with  Hamlin.  You  ought  to  know 
Hamlin.  He's  a  very  remarkable  man.  He  stamped 
out  Travancore  ophthalmia.  He  made  me  very  keen 
and  taught  me  all  that  I  know.  Not  that  that's 
much.  Now  you  are  rather  a  griff,  if  you'll  excuse 
my  saying  so.  I  wonder  how  soon  you  could  make 
yourself  useful  ?  " 

"  Well,  what  is  wanted  ?  "  said  Roger.  "  Surely 
not  much  ?  What  can  you  do  with  the  disease  ? 
You  can  only  inject  atoxyl  into  a  man,  and  pump 
trypanosomes  out  of  him  ?  I  can  learn  how  to 
mount  and  stain  objects  for  the  microscope.  I 
have  kept  meteorological  records.  I  could  surely 
keep  records  of  temperatures.  I  have  no  experience 
and  no  scientific  knowledge  ;  but  I  am  not  sure  that 
my  particular  theory  will  need  much  more  than 
prolonged,  steady  observation.  Probably  all  the 
attainable  scientific  facts  about  the  structures  of 
the  different  varieties  of  tsetse  are  known,  but  the 
habits  of  the  flies  are  very  little  known.  I  was 
thinking  that  a  minute  observation  of  the  flies 
would  be  useful.  It  is  a  kind  of  work  which  a 
trained  scientist  might  find  dull.  Now,  who  has 
really  observed  the  tsetse's  habits  ?  It  is  not  even 
known  what  their  food  is.  And  another  thing. 
What  is  it  which  keeps  them  near  the  water,  even 
when  (for  all  that  we  know)  the  air-breathing  fish 
are  no  longer  burrowed  in  the  mud  ?  And  why 
should  they  be  so  fond  of  certain  kinds  of  jungle  ? 
And  why  should  there  not  be  some  means  of  ex- 
terminating them  ?  I  could  experiment  in  many 
ways." 

i68 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

"  Yes.  That  is  true.  You  could,"  said  Lionel, 
puckering  his  face.  "  How  do  you  stand  heat  ? 
You're  slight.  You  can  probably  stand  more  than 
a  big  beefy  fellow." 

"  I  did  not  find  Belize  very  trying." 

"  Then  it's  an  expensive  business,"  said  Lionel. 
"  When  I  go  out  I  shan't  be  attached  to  any  com- 
mission. One  has  to  go  into  all  these  sordid  details 
pretty  closely.  Of  course,  you  won't  mind  my 
giving  you  one  or  two  tips.  Here's  my  account 
book  for  a  quite  short  trip  to  Ikupu.  You  will  see 
that  it  is  very  costly  and  very  wasteful." 

Roger  looked  at  the  account-book.  The  cost  of 
the  Ikupu  trip  was  certainly  heavy.  The  relatives 
of  two  bearers  who  had  been  eaten  by  Hons  had 
received  compensation.  The  widow  of  the  dead 
assistant  had  received  compensation.  A  month's 
stores  had  been  thrown  away  by  deserting  bearers. 
The  dirty,  dog's-eared  pages  gave  him  a  sense  of  the 
wasteful,  deathy,  confused  Hfe  which  goes  on  in 
new  countries  before  wasteful,  cruel,  confused 
nature  has  the  ideas  of  her  "  rebellious  son  "  im- 
posed upon  her.  "  We  went  out  seventy  strong," 
said  Lionel,  "  to  go  to  Ikupu.  We  had  bad  luck 
from  the  very  start.  Only  twelve  of  us  ever  got 
there.  You  see,  my  assistant,  Marteilhe,  was 
frightfully  ill.  I  had  fever  on  and  off  the  whole 
time.  So  the  bearers  did  what  they  liked.  It's  a 
heart-breaking  country  to  travel  in.  It's  like 
Texas.  '  A  good  land  for  men  and  dogs,  but  hell 
for  women  and  oxen.'  What  do  you  think  ? 
Does  it  seem  to  you  to  be  worth  the  waste  ?  " 

"  Very  well  worth,"  said  Roger,   handing  back 

169 


MULTHUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

the  book.  "  If  I  fail  to  do  one  little  speck  of  good 
there,  it  will  have  been  very  well  worth,  both  for 
my  own  character  and  for  my  own  time." 

"  I  don't  quite  see  your  point,"  said  Lionel. 

"  Well,"  said  Roger,  moved.  "  I  want  to  be 
quite  sure  of  certain  elements  in  myself,  before  I 
settle  down  to  a  literary  hfe.  That  life,  if  it  be  in 
the  least  worthy,  is  consecrated  to  the  creation  of 
the  age's  moral  consciousness.  In  the  old  time  a 
writer  was  proved  by  the  world  before  he  could 
begin  to  create  his  "  ideas  of  good  and  evil." 
Homer  never  existed,  of  course,  but  the  old  idea  of 
a  poet's  being  blind  is  very  significant.  Poets  must 
have  been  men  of  action,  like  the  other  men  of  their 
race.  They  only  became  poets  when  they  lost  their 
sight,  or  ceased,  through  some  wound  or  sickness, 
to  be  efficient  in  the  musters,  when,  in  fact,  their 
lives  were  turned  inwards.  Nowadays  that  is 
changed,  Heseltine.  A  man  writes  because  he  has 
read,  or  because  he  is  idle,  or  greedy,  or  vicious,  or 
vain,  for  a  dozen  different  reasons  ;  but  very 
seldom  because  his  whole  life  has  been  turned  in- 
ward by  the  disciphne  of  action,  thought,  or  suffer- 
ing. I  am  not  sure  of  myself.  Miss  Fawcett's 
death  has  brought  a  lot  into  my  life  which  I  never 
suspected.  I  begin  to  think  that  a  writer  without 
character,  without  high  and  austere  character,  in 
himself,  and  in  the  written  image  of  himself,  is  a 
panderer,  a  bawd,  a  seller  of  Christ."  He  rose 
from  his  chair.  He  paced  the  room  once  or  twice. 
"  Jacob  Boehme  was  right,"  he  went  on.  "  We 
are  watery  people.  Without  action  we  are  stag- 
nant.    If  you  sit  down  to  write,  day  after  day,  for 

170 


MULTHUDE    AND    SOLITUDE 

months  on  end,  you  can  feel  the  scum  growing  on 
your  mind."  He  sat  down  again,  staring  at  the 
Correggio.  "  There,"  he  said,  "  that  is  all  it  is.  I 
sometimes  feel  that  all  the  thoroughly  good  artists, 
like  Dilrer,  Shakespeare,  Michael  Angelo,  Dante,  all 
of  them,  sit  in  judgment  on  the  lesser  artists  when 
they  die.  I  think  they  forgive  bad  art,  because  they 
know  how  jolly  difficult  art  of  any  kind  is.  I  don't 
believe  that  art  was  ever  easy  to  anybody,  except 
perhaps  to  women,  whose  whole  lives  are  art.  But 
they  would  never  forgive  faults  of  character 
or  of  life.  They  would  exact  a  high  strain  of 
conduct,  mercilessly.  Good  God,  Heseltine,  it 
seems  to  me  terrible  that  a  man  should  be  permitted 
to  write  a  play  before  he  has  risked  his  life  for 
another,  or  for  the  State." 

"  Well,"  said  Lionel,  picking  up  his  cigarette, 
which  had  fallen  to  the  floor,  scattering  sparks. 
"  Yes."  He  pressed  his  forefinger  reflectively  on 
each  crumb  of  fire  one  after  the  other.  "  Yes. 
But  look  here.  I  met  that  French  poet  fellow, 
Mongeron,  the  other  day,  the  day  before  yesterday. 
He  said  that  action  was  unnecessary  to  the  man  of 
thought,  since  the  imagination  enabled  him  to 
possess  all  experience  imaginatively." 

"  Yes.  I  know  that  pleasant  theory.  I  agree," 
said  Roger.  "  But  only  when  action  has  formed  the 
character.  I  take  writing  very  seriously,  but  I  want 
to  be  sure  that  it  is  the  thing  which  will  bring  out 
the  best  in  me.  I  am  doubtful  of  that.  I  am 
doubtful  even  whether  art  of  any  kind  is  not  an 
anachronism  in  this  scientific  century,  when  so 
much  is  being  learned  and  applied  to  the  bettering 

171 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

of  life.  As  I  said  the  other  night,  my  State  is  the 
human  mind.  If  this  art,  about  which  I  have 
spilled  such  a  lot  of  ink,  be  really  a  survival,  what 
you  call  in  dissecting-rooms '  a  fossil,'  then  I  am  not 
helping  my  State,  but  hindering  her,  by  giving  all 
my  brains'  vitality  to  an  obsolete  cause.  One  feels 
very  clever,  with  these  wise  books  in  one's  head  ; 
but  they  don't  go  down  to  bed-rock.  They  don't 
mean  much  in  the  great  things  of  life.  They  don't 
help  one  over  a  death." 

"  No,"  said  Lionel  reflectively.  "  I  think  I  see 
all  your  points."  He  made  the  subject  practical 
at  once,  feeling  a  little  beyond  his  depth  in  ethics. 
"  It  would  be  a  very  interesting  experience  for  you 
to  go  out,"  he  said.  "  A  fine  thing,  too  ;  for  it  is 
very  difficult  to  get  a  good  brain  to  take  up  a 
subject  in  that  particular  way.  Still,  one  ought 
not  to  waste  a  good  brain  like  yours  in  watching 
tsetses." 

"  No  imaginative  work  is  wasted,"  said  Roger, 
"  The  experience  would  add  a  great  deal  to  me.  I 
should  feel  more  sure  of  being  able  to  face  the  judge 
after  death." 

"  How  about  the  practice  of  your  art  ?  " 

"  That  will  not  be  hurt  by  the  deepening  of  my 
interests." 

"  Come  on  out  to  dinner,"  said  Lionel.  "  I 
generally  go  to  Simpson's.  We'll  go  into  Committee 
of  Supply.  The  first  thing  we  shall  have  to  do  is  to 
try  to  get  you  the  job  of  bottle-washer  to  somebody's 
clinic.  What  I  want  to  do  when  I  get  out  there  is 
this,  Naldrett.  I  want  to  get  right  away  into  the 
back   of   beyond,   into   the   C.  F.  S.,   or   wherever 

172 


MULTITUDE   AND   SOLITUDE 

there  is  not  much  chance  of  the  natives  having 
mixed  with  Europeans.  I  want  to  find  out  if 
there  is  any  native  cure,  if  any  native  tribes  are 
immune,  as  they  are  to  malaria,  and  whether  their 
cattle,  if  they  have  any,  are  immune,  like  the  game. 
You  will  guess  that  what  I  want  to  do  is  to  prepare 
anti-toxins  strong  enough  to  resist  the  disease  at 
any  stage,  and  also  to  act  as  preventives.  That's 
the  problem  as  it  seems  to  me.  It  may  sound  a 
little  crazy." 

"  Is  the  tsetse  immune  ?  "  said  Roger.  "  Does 
anybody  know  anything  about  flies  ?  If  the  tsetse 
is  immune,  why  could  not  an  anti-toxin  be  pre- 
pared from  the  tsetse  ?  It  would  be  more  than 
science.     It  would  be  equity." 

They  walked  along  the  Strand  together. 

"  Anti-toxins  must  wait,"  said  Roger,  as  they 
stopped  before  crossing  Wellington  Street.  "  The 
first  thing  we  had  better  do  is  to  go  for  a  long  tramp 
together,  to  see  how  we  get  along." 

"  We  might  charter  a  boat,  and  try  to  get  round 
the  north  of  Ireland,"  said  Lionel.  "  Dublin  to 
Moville.  It  would  be  a  thorough  eye-opener. 
Then  we  might  walk  on  round  the  coast  to  Killybegs. 
Old  Hamlin  will  be  back  by  the  end  of  August. 
He  would  prescribe  you  a  course  of  study.  We 
might  do  some  reading  together." 

In  the  Strand,  outside  Simpson's,  a  procession 
of  dirty  boys  followed  a  dirty  drunkard  who  was 
being  taken  to  Bow  Street  by  two  policemen.  News- 
boys, with  debased,  predatory  faces,  peered  with 
ophthalmic  eyes  into  betting  news.  Other  symptoms 
of  disease  passed. 

173 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

"  Plenty  of  disease  here,"  said  Roger. 

"  All  preventable,"  said  Lionel.  "  Only  we're 
not  allowed  to  prevent  it.  People  here  would 
rather  have  it  by  them  to  reform.  Science  won't 
mix  with  sentiment,  thank  God  !  "  They  entered 
Simpson's. 


174 


VIII 

And  here  will  I,  in  honour  of  thy  love, 
Dwell  by  thy  grave,  forgetting  all  those  joys 
That  former  times  made  precious  to  mine  eyes. 

The  Faithful  Shepherdess, 

TEN  months  later  Roger  sat  swathed  in 
blankets  under  mosquito  netting,  steering  a 
boat  upstream.  He  was  in  the  cold  fit  of  a  fever. 
The  bows  of  the  boat  were  heaped  with  the  cages  of 
laboratory  animals  and  with  boxes,  on  the  top  of 
which  a  negro  sat,  singing  a  song.  The  singer 
clapped  gravely  with  his  hands  to  mark  the  time. 
"  Marumba  is  very  far  away,"  he  sang.  "  Yes.  It 
is  far  away,  and  nobody  ever  got  there."  At  times, 
pausing  in  his  song  to  lift  a  hand  to  Roger,  he 
pointed  out  a  snag  or  shoal.  'At  other  times  the 
rowers,  lifting  their  paddles  wearily,  sang  for  a 
few  bars  in  chorus,  about  the  bones  on  the  road  to 
Marumba.  Then  the  chorus  died  ;  the  paddles 
splashed  ;  the  tholes  grunted.  The  boat  lagged  on 
into  the  unknown,  up  the  red,  savage  river,  which 
loitered,  and  steamed,  and  stank,  like  a  river  of  a 
beginning  earth. 

Lionel,  heaped  with  blankets,  lay  at  Roger's  feet. 
His  teeth  were  chattering.  The  wet  rag  round  his 
forehead  had  slipped  over  his  eyes.  The  debile 
motion  of  the  hand  which  tried  to  thrust  the  rag 
away,  so  that  he  might  see,  told  of  an  intense  petu- 

175 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

lant  weakness.  By  him  lay  a  negro,  wasted  to  a 
skeleton,  who  watched  Roger  with  a  childish  grave 
intentness  out  of  eyes  heavy  with  death. 

The  boat  ground  slowly  past  a  snag.  Roger, 
raising  himself  upon  a  box,  looked  out  painfully 
over  the  river  bank  to  the  immense  distance 
beyond,  where,  in  a  dimness,  mists  hung.  To  the 
right,  a  mile  or  two  from  the  river,  was  forest, 
sloping  to  an  expanse  of  water,  intensely  blue. 
Beyond  the  water  was  grass  sloping  up  to  forest. 
The  forest  jutted  out,  immense,  dark,  silent. 
Nothing  lay  beyond  it  but  forest,  trees  towering  up, 
trees  fallen,  uprooted,  rotting,  a  darkness,  a  green 
gloom.  Over  it  was  the  sky,  of  hard,  bright  blue 
metal,  covered  with  blazing  films.  Outside  it,  like 
captains  halted  at  the  head  of  a  horde,  were  solitary, 
immense  trees,  with  ruddy  boles.  To  each  side  of 
them,  the  forest  stretched,  an  irregular  wilderness 
of  wood,  grey,  rather  than  green,  in  the  glare  aloft ; 
below,  darker.  The  water  at  the  foot  of  the  slope 
opened  out  in  bays,  ruffled  by  the  wind,  shimmering. 
Reeds  grew  about  the  bays.  A  cluster  of  tall, 
orange-blossomed  water-plants  hid  the  rest  from 
Roger's  sight  as  the  boat  loitered  on. 

To  the  left  it  was  a  sometimes  swampy  plain- 
land,  reaching  on  into  the  mists,  with  ants'  nests 
for  milestones.  Little  gentle  hills  rose  up,  some  of 
them  dotted  with  thorn-trees.  They  were  like  the 
stumps  of  islands  worn  away  by  the  river,  when, 
long  ago,  it  had  brimmed  that  plain-land  from  the 
forest  to  the  far  horizon. 

Far  ahead,  to  the  left  of  the  river,  Roger  noticed 
a  slightly  larger  hill.     It  held  his  gaze  for  a  few 

176 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

minutes.  It  stood  up  from  the  plain  exactly  like 
a  Roman  camp  which  he  had  visited  in  England 
long  before,  one  Christmas  Day.  He  liked  to  look 
at  it.  There  was  comfort  in  looking  at  it.  It  was 
Hke  a  word  from  Europe,  that  hill  beyond  there, 
greyish  in  the  blinding  light.  It  was  like  a  Roman 
camp,  like  military  virtue,  order,  calm,  courage, 
dignity.  He  needed  some  such  message.  He  was  in 
command  of  a  shipload  of  suffering.  He  was  wan- 
dering on  into  the  unknown,  in  charge  of  dying 
men.  Smoke  was  rising  from  below  the  hill,  a 
single  spire  of  smoke.    He  hailed  the  singer. 

"  Merrylegs,"  he  cried,  "  what  is  the  smoke 
there  ?  " 

"  Jualapa,"  said  the  man,  standing  up  to  look. 
"  Jualapa." 

"  It  can't  be  Jualapa,"  said  Lionel  petulantly, 
struggHng  to  lift  his  blankets.  "  Oh,  stop  that  noise, 
Roger.     It  shakes  my  head  to  pieces." 

"  Jualapa,"  cried  the  rowers  excitedly.  "  Jual- 
apa." They  dropped  their  paddles.  Standing  on 
the  thwarts  they  peered  under  the  sharps  of  their 
hands  at  the  rising  smoke.  They  rubbed  their 
belhes,  thinking  of  meat.  One  of  them,  beating  his 
hands  together,  broke  into  a  song  about  Jualapa. 

Roger,  stumbling  forward,  shaken  by  sickness, 
bade  them  to  give  way,  quietly.  The  jabbering 
died  down  as  the  tholes  began  again  to  grunt. 
Merrylegs,  still  clapping  his  hands,  broke  into 
another  song. 

Jualapa  is  near.  Yes,  Jualapa  is  near.  Not  like  Marumba. 
We  will  eat  meat  in  Jualapa.  Much  meat.  Much  meat. 
The  men  of  Little  Belly  will  eat  meat  in  Jualapa. 

N  177 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

"  Shut  your  silly  head,  Merrylegs,"  cried  Roger 
angrily.  The  song  broke  off.  Merrylegs  began  to 
tell  the  bow-oar  what  meat  there  would  be  in 
Jualapa.  He  said  that  there  would  be  cattle,  and 
perhaps  a  diseased  cow  among  them.  The  rowing 
seemed  to  freshen  a  Httle.  The  boat  dragged  on  a 
little  quicker. 

"  How  are  you,  Lionel  ?  "  Roger  asked.  It  was 
a  foolish  question. 

"  Oh,  for  God's  sake  don't  ask  silly  questions," 
said  Lionel  very  weakly.    "  Do  leave  me  alone." 

For  answer,  Roger  gently  renewed  the  compress 
round  the  sick  man's  head.  From  the  thirst  which 
was  torturing  him  he  guessed  that  his  fever's  hot 
fit  would  soon  begin.  He  prayed  that  it  might  keep 
off  until  they  had  reached  the  smoke.  They  were 
probably  nearing  some  village.  They  might  camp 
at  the  village.  Only  he  would  have  to  be  well  when 
they  reached  the  village.  He  would  have  to  get 
Lionel  ashore,  into  some  comfortable  hut.  He 
would  have  to  feed  him  there  with  some  strong 
comforting  broth.  Before  he  could  do  that,  he 
would  have  to  see  the  village  headman.  He 
would  have  to  look  after  the  bearers.  The  boat 
would  have  to  be  moored.  Some  of  her  gear  would 
have  to  be  unloaded. 

There  could  be  no  thought  of  going  on,  up- 
stream, to  Jualapa,  in  their  present  state.  A  native 
had  told  them,  the  day  before,  that  Jualapa,  three 
days'  journey  upstream,  was  stricken  with  sleeping 
sickness.  "  All  were  sleeping,"  he  said.  "  Men, 
women,  and  little  children.  The  cattle  were  not 
milked  at  Jualapa."    It  was  the  first  time  that  they 

178 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

had  heard  of  the  disease  since  leaving  the  coast. 
They  had  decided  to  attempt  Jualapa. 

They  were  both  suffering  from  fever.  They 
would  have  been  glad  to  camp  for  a  few  days  before 
pushing  on  ;  but  Lionel  forbade  it.  The  rowers 
were  getting  homesick.  Three  of  them  had  con- 
tracted dysentery.  He  felt  that  if  they  called  a 
halt  anywhere  their  men  would  desert  them.  The 
important  thing  was  to  push  on,  he  said,  to  carry 
the  men  so  far  that  they  would  be  afraid  to  run. 
If  the  men  deserted  after  the  leaders  had  engaged 
the  disease,  well  and  good,  there  would  be  the  work 
to  do.  But  if  they  deserted  before  that,  the  expedi- 
tion would  end  before  Roger  took  his  first  lumbar 
puncture.  It  was  the  last  sensible  decision  Lionel 
had  been  able  to  make.  His  fever  had  recurred 
within  the  hour.  Since  then  he  had  been 
dangerously  ill,  so  ill,  and  with  such  violent  changes 
of  temperature,  that  his  weakness,  now  that  the 
fever  lifted,  frightened  Roger. 

Roger  shook  and  chattered,  trying  to  think.  He 
was  ill ;  so  ill  that  he  could  not  think  clearly.  The 
horrible  part  of  it,  to  him,  was  to  be  just  clear 
enough  in  his  head  to  fear  to  change  Lionel's 
decision.  He  wanted  to  change  for  Lionel's  sake ; 
but  with  this  fever  smouldering  in  his  brain,  surging 
and  lifting,  like  a  hot  blast  withering  him,  the  plan 
seemed  august,  like  a  law  of  the  Medes  and  Persians. 
He  was  afraid  of  changing.  At  last,  in  a  momentary 
clearing  of  the  head,  he  made  up  his  mind  to 
change.  He  would  anchor.  They  would  halt  at 
the  smoke.  They  would  land  and  camp.  Nothing 
could  be  done  till  the  leaders  were  cured.     If  the 

179 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

men  deserted,  he  would  trust  to  luck  to  be  able  to 
hire  new  men.  He  could  not  go  on  like  this  ; 
Lionel  might  die.  The  fever  closed  in  upon  his 
mind  again,  surging  and  withering.  The  air 
seemed  strangely  thick.  Merrylegs  wavered  and 
blurred.  The  boat  grounded  on  a  mud-bank,  and 
brushed  past  some  many-shimmering  reeds  with  a 
long  swish.  The  dying  negro,  stirred  by  some 
memory,  which  the  noise  had  awakened  in  him, 
raised  himself  faintly,  asking  something.  He  fell 
back  faint,  closing  his  eyes,  then  opening  them. 
He  beat  with  one  hand,  jabbering  the  name  Mpaka. 
His  teeth  clenched.  He  was  in  the  death  agony. 
One  of  the  stroke-oars,  clambering  over  the  boxes 
in  the  stern-sheets,  beat  the  dying  man  upon  the 
chest.  He  was  beating  out  the  devil,  he  explained. 
He  soon  grew  tired.  He  shouted  in  the  sick  man's 
ear,  laughed  delightedly  at  his  groans,  and  went 
forward  to  explain  his  prowess.  He  broke  out  into 
a  song  about  it. 

Kilemba  has  a  big  devil  in  his  belly. 
Big  devil  eat  up  Kilemba.     Eat  all  up. 
But  Muafi  a  strong  man.     Very  strong  man.     Devil 
no  good.     Not  eat  Muafi. 

They  swept  round  a  bend,  where  crocodiles,  like 
great  worm-casts,  sunned  and  nuzzled,  with  mud 
caking  off  their  bellies.  The  boat  passed  into  a 
broad,  above  which,  the  hill  like  a  Roman  camp 
rose  up.  Pink  cranes  stood  in  the  shallows.  Slowly, 
one  of  them  rose  aloft,  heavily  flagging.  Another 
rose,  then  another,  then  another,  till  they  made  a 
pinkish  ribbon  against  the  forest.     Following  the 

i8o 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

line  of  their  flight  Roger  saw  a  few  dehcate  deer 
leave  their  pasture,  startled  by  the  starting  of  the 
cranes.  They  moved  off  daintily,  looking  uneasily 
behind  them.    Soon  they  broke  into  a  run. 

On  the  left  bank,  in  a  space  of  poor  soil,  covered 
with  shingle  by  a  freshet,  some  vultures  cowered 
and  sidled  about  a  dead  thing.  Roger  stared 
stupidly  at  them.  Something  of  a  warning  of 
death  moved  through  the  surging  of  his  fever.  He 
said  to  himself  that  there  was  death  here.  Words 
spoke  in  his  brain,  each  word  like  a  fire-flash.  "  No 
white  man  has  ever  been  here  before.  You  are  the 
first.  Take  care.  There  is  death  here."  Some 
vague  fear  of  possible  war,  so  vague  that  he  was  not 
quite  certain  that  it  was  not  a  memory  of  a  war- 
scare  at  home,  made  him  look  to  his  revolver.  He 
thrust  up  the  catch  with  his  thumb,  and  stared  at 
the  seven  dull  brass  discs  pulled  slightly  forward 
by  the  extractor.  There  were  seven,  and  we  are 
seven,  and  there  were  seven  planets.  The  fever 
made  him  stare  at  the  opened  breech  for  a  full 
minute. 

Out  of  some  tall  water-plants,  whose  long, 
bluish-grey  leaves  looked  very  cool  in  the  glare  of 
heat,  came  flies.  They  came  to  the  attack  with  a 
whirling  fierceness  like  clegs.  They  were  small, 
brown,  insignificant  flies.  They  were  tsetse  flies. 
The  boat  pulled  out  into  the  open  to  avoid  them. 
After  a  few  more  minutes  Roger  called  upon  the 
rowers  to  stop  rowing. 

He  was  in  the  middle  of  the  broad,  looking  at 
the  left  bank,  where  a  trodden  path  led  to  the 
water's  edge.     For  many  centuries  men  and  beasts 

i8i 


MUiniUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

had  watered  there.  The  path  had  worn  a  deep  rut 
into  the  bank.  What  struck  Roger  about  it  was  its 
narrowness.  It  was  the  narrow  track  of  savages. 
The  people  who  made  it  had  used  it  fearfully,  one 
at  a  time,  full  of  suspicion,  like  drinking  deer. 
Their  fear  had  had  a  kind  of  idealism  about  it.  It 
might  truly  be  said  of  those  nervous  drinkers  that 
when  they  drank,  they  drank  to  the  good  health  of 
their  State.  Even  in  his  fever,  the  sight  of  the  path 
shocked  Roger  with  a  sense  of  the  danger  of  life  in 
this  place.  What  was  the  danger  ?  What  was  the 
life  ? 

Beyond  the  track,  at  a  little  distance  from  the 
river,  was  a  thick  thorn  hedge  surrounding  a 
village.  From  the  midst  of  the  village  a  single 
stream  of  smoke  arose.  It  went  up  straight  for  a 
foot  or  two,  behind  the  shelter  of  the  hedge.  Then 
it  blew  down  gustily,  in  wavering  puffs.  There 
was  no  other  sign  of  life  in  the  village.  A  few  hens 
were  picking  food  in  the  open.  A  cow,  standing 
with  drooped  head  above  the  corpse  of  her  calf, 
awaited  death.  Her  bones  were  coming  through 
her  skin,  poor  beast.  There  were  black  patches  of 
flies  upon  her.  Three  vultures  waited  for  her.  One 
of  them  was  stretching  his  wings  with  the  air  of  a 
man  yawning.  Vultures  were  busy  about  a  dead 
cow  in  the  middle  distance.  Dark  heaps,  further 
off,  had  still  something  of  the  appearance  of  cows. 
The  men,  looking  earnestly  about  from  the  tops  of 
the  boxes,  jabbered  excitedly,  pointing.  Roger  un- 
slung  his  binoculars  and  stared  at  the  silent  place. 
He  could  see  no  one.  There  were  dead  cows,  a  dying 
cow,  and  those  few  clucking  hens.     He  wondered 

182 


MULTHUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

if  there  could  be  an  ambush.  The  grass  was  tall 
enough,  in  the  clumps,  to  shelter  an  enemy  ;  but  the 
wild  birds  passed  from  clump  to  clump  without 
fear.  In  a  bare  patch,  two  scarlet-headed  birds 
were  even  fighting  together.  Their  neck  feathers 
were  ruffled  erect.  They  struck  and  tugged.  They 
rose,  flapping,  to  cuff  each  other  with  their  wings. 
Leaping  aloft  they  thrust  with  their  spurs.  A  hen, 
less  brilliantly  coloured,  watched  the  battle.  But 
for  these  birds  the  place  was  peaceful.  The  wind 
ruffled  the  grass ;  the  smoke  was  gusty  ;  one  of  the 
poultry  crooned  with  a  long  gurgling  cluck. 

Something  made  Roger  look  from  the  village  to 
the  hill  like  a  Roman  camp.  It  glistened  grey  in 
the  sun-blaze.  The  dance  of  the  air  above  it  was 
queer,  almost  like  smoke.  He  stared  at  it  through 
his  glasses.  After  a  long  look  he  turned  to  stare 
into  the  water  to  rest  his  eyes.  "  I  am  mad,"  he 
said  to  himself.  "  I  am  dreaming  this.  Presently 
I  shall  wake  up."  He  looked  again.  There  could 
be  no  doubt  of  it.  The  hill  was  covered  with  a 
grey  stone  wall  at  least  thirty  feet  high.  There, 
about  three-quarters  of  a  mile  away,  was  the  ruin  of 
an  ancient  town,  as  old,  perhaps,  as  the  Pharaohs. 
There  was  no  doubt  that  it  was  old.  Parts  of  it, 
undermined  by  burrowing  things,  or  thrust  out  by 
growing  things,  were  fallen  in  heaps.  Other  parts 
were  overgrown  twelve  feet  thick,  with  vegetation. 
Trees  grew  out  of  it.  A  few  cacti  upon  the  wall-top 
were  sharply  outlined  against  the  sky.  On  the 
further  end  of  the  wall  there  was  a  fire-coloured 
blaze,  where  some  poisonous  weed,  having  stifled 
down    all    weaker    life,    triumphed    in    sprawling 

183 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

vellow  blossoms,  spotted  and  smeared  with  drowsy 
juice.  There  were  dense  swarms  of  flies  above  it 
as  Roger  could  guess  from  the  movements  of  the 
birds  across  the  patch.  He  watched  the  ruin. 
There  was  no  trace  of  human  occupation  there. 
No  smoke  shewed  there.  Apparently  the  place  had 
become  a  possession  for  the  bittern.  Wild  beasts 
of  the  forests  lay  there,  owls  dwelt  there,  and 
satyrs  danced  there.  It  was  as  desolate  as  Babylon 
at  the  end  of  Isaiah  xiii. 

He  looked  at  the  men  to  see  what  effect  the  ruin 
had  upon  them.  They  did  not  look  at  it.  They  had 
the  limited  primitive  intelligence,  which  cannot 
see  beyond  the  facts  of  physical  life.  They  were 
looking  at  the  village,  jabbering  as  they  looked. 

"  What  are  we  stopping  for  ?  "  said  Lionel. 

"  There's  a  village,"  said  Roger.  "  It  seems  to 
have  cattle  plague."  Lionel  struggled  weakly  to  a 
sitting  position,  and  looked  out  with  vacant 
eyes. 

There's  a  ruin  on  the  hill,  there,"  said  Roger. 
Plague  and  ruin  are  the  products  of  this  land," 
said     Lionel.       "  Don't    stand    there    doddering, 
Naldrett.     Find  out  what's  happening  here." 

"  Look  here,  you  rest,"  said  Roger  with  an  effort. 
"  Just  lie  back  on  the  blankets  here,  and  rest." 

"  How  the  devil  am  I  to  rest  when  you  won't 
keep  the  gang  quiet  ?  " 

"  You  just  close  your  eyes,  Lionel,"  said  Roger. 
"  Close  them.  Keep  them  close."  He  sluiced  a  rag 
in  the  shallow  water.  "  Here's  a  new  compress 
for  you." 

He  ordered  the  men  to  pull  in  to  the  watering- 

184 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

place,  while  he  looked  about  in  what  he  called  the 
toy  box  for  presents  for  the  village  chief.  He  took 
some  copper  wire,  a  few  brass  cartridge  shells,  some 
green  beads,  some  bars  of  brightly  coloured  sealing 
wax,  a  doll  or  two,  of  the  kind  which  say,  "  Mamma," 
when  stricken  on  the  solar  plexus,  a  doll's  mirror, 
a  knife,  an  empty  green  bottle,  and  a  tin  trumpet. 
He  tilted  a  white-lined  green  umbrella  over  Lionel's 
head.  He  sHpped  over  the  side  as  the  boat  grounded. 
Merrylegs  followed  him,  carrying  the  presents. 
They  slopped  through  shallow  water,  and  climbed 
the  bank. 

Merrylegs,  clapping  his  hands  loudly,  called  to 
the  villagers  in  the  Mwiri  dialect  that  a  king,  a 
white  man,  a  most  glorious  person,  was  advancing 
to  them.  Roger  asked  him  if  he  had  heard  of  this 
village  at  their  stopping-place  the  day  before.  No, 
he  said,  he  had  never  heard  of  this  village.  It  was 
a  poor  place,  very  far  away  ;  he  had  never  heard  of 
it.  He  called  again,  batting  with  his  hands.  No 
answer  came.  Roger,  looking  anxiously  about,  saw 
no  sign  of  life.  No  sign  shewed  on  the  city  wall. 
A  new  vulture,  hghting  by  the  dying  cow,  eyed  him 
gravely,  without  enthusiasm.  One  of  those  already 
there  flapped  his  wings  again  as  though  yawning. 
"  Merrylegs,"  said  Roger,  "  we  must  go  into  the 
village."  He  shifted  round  his  revolver  holster,  so 
that  the  weapon  lay  to  hand.  They  skirted  the 
zareba  till  they  came  to  the  low  hole,  two  feet 
square,  which  led  through  the  thorns  into  the  town. 
The  mud  of  the  road  was  pounded  hard  by  the 
continual  passing  of  the  natives.  Fragments  of  a 
crudely  decorated  pottery  were  trodden  in  here  and 

i8s 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

there.  Lying  down  flat,  Merrylegs  could  see  that 
the  stakes  which  served  as  door  to  the  entrance, 
were  not  in  place  inside  the  stockade.  The  visitor 
was  free  to  enter.  "  Think  all  gone  away,"  said 
Merrylegs.     "  Slave  man  he  catch." 

Roger  did  not  now  believe  in  the  theory  of  slave 
man.  "  It  is  nonsense,"  he  said.  "  Nonsense.  There 
must  be  death  here."  He  stood  by  the  gate, 
breathing  heavily,  not  quite  knowing,  from  time  to 
time,  what  he  was  doing,  at  other  times  knowing 
clearly,  but  not  caring.  Little  things,  the  crawling 
of  a  tick,  the  cluck  of  a  hen,  the  noise  of  his  own 
breath,  seemed  important  to  his  fever-clogged 
brain.    "  I'll  go  in,"  he  said,  at  last. 

"  Not  go  in,"  said  Merrylegs  promptly.  "  Per- 
haps inside.  Perhaps  make  him  much  beer.  All 
drunk  him."  He  called  again  in  Mwiri,  but  no 
answer  came.  A  hen,  perhaps  expecting  food,  came 
clucking  through  the  hole,  cocking  her  eyes  at  the 
strangers.  Roger,  finding  a  bit  of  biscuit  in  his 
pocket,  dropped  it  before  her.  She  worried  it 
away  from  his  presence,  and  gulped  it  down 
gluttonously  before  the  other  hens  could  see. 

Roger  knelt  down.  Peering  up  the  tunnel  he 
tried  to  make  out  what  lay  within.  He  could  not 
see.  The  entrance  passage  had  been  built  with  a 
bend  in  the  middle  for  the  greater  safety  of  the 
tribe.  For  all  that  he  could  know,  a  warrior  might 
lie  beyond  the  bend,  ready  to  thrust  a  spear  into 
him.  He  did  not  think  of  this  till  a  long  time 
afterwards.  He  began  to  shuflfle  along  the  passage 
on  all  fours.  Nothing  lay  beyond  the  bend.  He 
clambered  to  his  feet  inside  the  village.     "  Come 

i86 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

on  in,  Merrylegs,"  he  called.  Merrylegs  came. 
They  looked  about  them. 

The  village  formed  an  irregular  circle  about  two 
hundred  yards  across.  Inside  the  thorn  hedge  it 
was  strongly  palisaded  with  wooden  spikes,  nine 
feet  high,  bound  together  with  wattle,  and  plastered 
with  a  mud-dab.  The  huts  stood  well  away  from 
the  palisade.  They  formed  a  rough  avenue, 
shaped  rather  like  a  sickle.  There  were  thirty-five 
huts  still  standing.  The  frames  of  two  or  three 
others  stood,  waiting  completion.  One  or  two 
more  had  fallen  into  disrepair.  Several  inhabitants 
were  in  sight,  both  men  and  women. 

They  were  sitting  on  the  ground,  propped 
against  the  palisades  or  the  walls  of  their  huts,  in 
attitudes  which  recalled  the  attitude  of  the  negro, 
seen  long  before  in  the  photograph  in  the  Irish 
hotel.  One  of  the  men,  rising  unsteadily  to  his  feet, 
walked  towards  them  for  some  half-dozen  paces, 
paused,  seemed  to  forget,  and  sank  down  again, 
with  a  nodding  head.  A  child,  rising  up  from  a 
log,  crawled  towards  a  hen.  The  hen,  suspecting 
him,  moved  off.  The  child  watched  it  strut  away 
from  him  as  though  trying  to  remember  what  he 
had  planned  to  do  to  it.  He  stood  stupidly,  half 
asleep.  Slowly  he  laid  himself  down  upon  the 
ground,  with  the  movement  of  an  old  man  careful 
of  the  aches  of  his  joints.  It  seemed  to  Roger  that 
the  child  had  never  really  been  awake.  It  was  the 
slow  deliberate  movement  of  the  child  which  con- 
vinced him,  through  his  fever,  that  he  was  in  the 
presence  of  the  enemy.  "  These  people  have 
sleeping  sickness,"  he  said.     The  words  seemed  to 

187 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

echo  along  his  brain,  "  sleeping  sickness,  sickness, 
sickness."  This  was  what  he  had  come  out  to  see. 
Here  was  his  work  cut  out  for  him.  This  was 
sleeping  sickness.  Here  was  a  village  down  with  it. 
It  was  shocking  to  him.  Had  he  been  in  health  it 
would  have  staggered  him.  These  sleepers  were 
never  going  to  awake.  All  these  poor  wasting 
wretches  were  dying.  He  had  never  seen  death  at 
work  on  a  large  scale  before.  He  checked  a  half- 
formed  impulse  to  bolt  by  stepping  forward  into 
the  enclosure,  into  the  reek  of  death.  The  place 
was  full  of  death.  He  drove  Merrylegs  before  him. 
Merrylegs  knew  the  disease.  Merrylegs  had  no 
wish  to  see  more  of  it.  He  was  for  bolting.  "  Go 
on,  Merrylegs,"  said  Roger.     "  Sing  out  to  them." 

Merrylegs  got  no  answer.  "  Only  dead  men 
here,"  he  said.    "  Young  men,  no  catch  him,  run." 

"  Come  on  round  the  huts  then,"  said  Roger. 
"  We'll  see  how  many  have  run."  They  went  to  the 
hut  from  which  the  smoke  rose. 

An  old,  old  hideous  woman  was  crouched  there 
over  a  little  fire.  She  was  trembling  violently,  and 
mumbling  with  her  gums.  She  cowered  away  from 
Roger  with  a  wailing  cry,  very  like  the  cry  of  a 
rabbit  caught  by  a  weasel.  "  Tiri,"  she  said,  "  tiri," 
expecting  death.  Merrylegs  asked  her  questions  ; 
Roger  tried  her.  It  was  useless.  She  did  not 
understand  them.  She  mumbled  something,  shak- 
ing her  poor  old  head,  whimpering  between  the 
words.  Roger  gave  her  a  doll,  which  she  hugged 
and  whimpered  over.  She  was  like  a  child  of  a  few 
months  old  in  the  body  of  a  baboon.  They  tried 
another  hut. 

i8S 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

From  the  number  of  food  pots  stored  there, 
Roger  guessed  that  this  hut  had  once  belonged  to  a 
chief.  Two  women  lay  there,  one  in  the  last  stages 
of  the  sickness,  very  ill,  and  scarcely  stirring,  the 
other  as  yet  only  apathetic.  She  blinked  at  them 
as  they  entered  the  hut,  without  interest,  and 
without  alarm,  just  like  an  animal.  She  might  once 
have  been  a  comely  woman,  but  the  drowsiness  of 
the  sickness  had  already  brought  out  the  animal  in 
her  face.  Her  ornaments  of  very  thin  soft  gold 
shewed  that  she  was  the  wife  of  an  important 
person  ;  she  may  perhaps  have  been  the  chief's 
favourite.  She  did  not  understand  Merrylegs' 
dialect,  nor  he  hers.  Possibly,  as  sometimes  happens 
in  the  disease,  she  had  no  complete  control  over  her 
tongue.  Roger  thought  that  she  might  be  thirsty. 
He  poured  water  for  her.  She  did  not  drink.  It 
occurred  to  Roger  then  that  she  might  be  welcom- 
ing the  disease,  giving  way  to  it  without  a  struggle, 
after  losing  husband  and  child.  He  could  see  that 
she  had  had  a  child,  and  there  was  no  child 
there.  "  Poor  woman,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"  Poor  wretch."  They  went  out  into  the  open 
again. 

At  the  further  end  of  the  village  Roger  found 
evidence  which  helped  him  to  make  a  theory  of 
what  had  happened.  Just  outside  the  palisade 
were  the  bones  of  a  few  bodies,  which,  as  he  sup- 
posed, were  those  who  had  died,  after  the  first 
breaking  out  of  the  epidemic.  If  the  epidemic  had 
begun  two  months  before,  as  seemed  likely,  these 
men  and  women  must  have  been  dead  for  about  a 
fortnight.    The  sickness  and  mortality  had  steadily 

189 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

increased  since  then.  The  able,  uninfected  inhabi- 
tants, had  at  last  migrated  together.  They  had 
gone  off  with  their  arms  and  cattle  to  some  healthier 
place,  leaving  the  infected  to  die.  He  could  make 
no  other  explanation.  Many  of  the  huts  were 
deserted.  In  others,  still  living  sleepers  lay  among 
corpses.  Three  young  men,  a  boy,  and  an  old 
man  were  the  liveliest  of  the  remaining  inhabitants. 
Roger  had  only  to  look  at  their  tongues  to  see  that 
they,  too,  were  sealed  for  death.  The  tongue 
moved  from  the  root  with  a  helpless  tremor. 
Their  lymphatic  glands  were  swollen.  They  them- 
selves were  under  no  delusions  about  their  state. 
The  cloud  was  on  them.  They  would  not  speak 
unless  they  were  spoken  to  with  some  sharpness. 
They  were  gloomily  waiting  until  the  ailment 
should  blot  everything  away  from  them.  Merry- 
legs  tried  to  understand  them  ;  but  gave  it  up. 
"  Very  poor  men,"  he  said.  "  Know  nothing." 
They  were  some  relic  (or  outpost)  of  a  strange  tribe, 
speaking  an  unknown  tongue.  Perhaps  they  were 
the  descendants  of  some  little  wandering  band, 
separated  from  its  parent  tribe,  by  war,  pestilence, 
or  mischance.  They  had  had  their  laws,  their  arts, 
their  customs.  They  had  even  thriven.  The  game 
of  life  had  gone  pleasantly  there.  Life  there  had 
been  little  more  than  a  sitting  in  the  sun,  between 
going  to  the  river  for  a  drink  and  to  the  patch  for  a 
mealie.  The  beauties  had  sleeked  themselves  with 
oil,  and  the  strong  ones  had  made  themselves  fat 
with  butter.  They  had  lived  "  naturally,"  like 
plants  or  animals,  sharing  the  wild  things'  immunity 
from  ailments.     They  were  completely  adjusted. 

190 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

Now  some  little  change  had  altered  their  relations 
to  nature.  Something  had  brought  the  trypano- 
some.  Now  they  died  like  the  animals,  deserted  by 
their  kind. 

The  first  shock  of  the  sight  of  this  harvest  of 
death  came  upon  Roger  dully,  through  the  shield  of 
his  fever.  He  did  not  realize  the  full  horror  of  it. 
Nor  was  he  conscious  of  the  passage  of  time.  He 
stayed  in  the  village  for  a  full  hour  before  he  re- 
turned to  the  boat.  In  that  hour  he  made  rough 
notes  of  the  twenty-nine  cases  still  present  there. 
Sixteen  of  them,  he  hoped,  might  yield  to  treat- 
ment. The  others  were  practically  dead  already 
from  wasting.  The  preparation  of  the  notes,  brief 
as  they  were,  was  a  great  drain  upon  his  strength. 
The  fever  was  gaining  on  him.  He  found  himself 
staring  vacantly  between  the  writing  of  two  words. 
His  brain  was  a  perpetual  surging  tumult.  His  eyes 
seemed  to  burn  in  their  sockets.  He  remembered 
Lionel  with  a  great  start.  "  Lionel,"  he  repeated. 
"  I  must  tell  Lionel.    We  shall  stop  here." 

Outside  the  infected  village  he  looked  for  tracks. 
A  track  led  towards  the  ruin.  Another  led  away 
across  the  plain.  Both  were  as  narrow  as  a  horse's 
girth,  and  beaten  as  hard  as  earthenware.  The  old 
tracks  of  cattle  crossed  them.  Merrylegs,  looking 
about  upon  the  ground,  cried  out  that  the  tribe 
had  gone  over  the  plain  with  their  cattle  ten  or 
eleven  days  before.  He  pointed  to  marks  on  the 
ground.     Roger  took  his  word  for  it. 

He  climbed  into  the  stern-sheets  of  the  boat, 
feeling  as  though  hot  metal  were  being  injected 
into  his  joints.     "  How  are  you  now,  Lionel  ?  "  he 

191 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

asked.  "  You're  looking  pretty  bad.  This  is  a 
plague  spot.  They've  got  the  sickness  here.  They're 
dying  of  it." 

"  Couldn't  you  have  come  and  told  me  before 
this  ?  "  said  Lionel.  "  I've  been  lying  here  not 
knowing  whether  you  were  dead  or  ahve." 

"  I'd  a  lot  of  huts  to  examine,"  he  answered. 
"  What  do  you  think  ?  We  had  better  stop  here,  eh? 
We  had  better  make  this  our  station.  The  first  thing 
I  shall  do  will  be  to  get  you  into  a  bed." 

"  That's  like  you,"  said  Lionel.  "  You  make 
plans  when  I'm  sick  and  can't  veto  them.  My 
God,  if  I'd  known  it  was  going  to  be  like  this !  Well, 
I'll  never  work  with  a  griff  again." 

"  It's  time  for  your  medicine,"  said  Roger 
stolidly,  in  order  to  change  the  subject.  He  poured 
the  white  powder  into  a  cigarette  paper,  and 
handed  it  to  the  patient. 

"  Don't  you  dare  to  give  me  medicine,"  Lionel 
answered,  knocking  the  dose  away.  "  I  believe 
you're  poisoning  me.  I've  watched  you.  You're 
poisoning  me." 

"  Don't  say  things  like  that,  Lionel,"  said  Roger. 
"  You're  awfully  tired,  I  know,  but  they  hurt.  I 
wish  I  could  get  you  well,"  he  mused.  "  It's  not  so 
easy  as  you  seem  to  think,"  he  added. 

"  What  isn't  ?  " 

"  Life  here." 

"  That's  because  you're  such  a  silly  ass.  I'm  all 
right.  I  only  want  to  be  left  alone.  Well.  Get  the 
men  ashore,  can't  you  ?  Get  some  sort  of  a  camp 
pitched." 

"  I  am  going  to,"  said  Roger.     "  I  am  going  to 

192 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

camp  on  the  hill  there  for  to-night,  among  the 
ruins."     He  gave  some  orders. 

Lionel  sat  up.  "  Merrylegs,"  he  said,  "  drop 
that.     I  command  here." 

"  Look  here,  Heseltine,"  said  Roger.  "  I  must 
do  this." 

"  You  shall  not  wreck  the  expedition,"  said 
Lionel.  "  You're  as  ignorant  as  a  cow.  You 
haven't  even  examined  the  ruin." 

Roger  paid  no  attention  to  him.  He  bade  the 
men  moor  the  boat  and  unload  her. 

"  Naldrett,"  said  Lionel,  "  if  you  persist  in  this — 
when  I'm  sick  and  can't  stop  you — it's  the  end  of 
our  working  together.  We  part  company.  Put 
down  that  box,  Merrylegs.  Leave  those  things  in 
the  boat." 

Roger  had  more  strength  left  in  him  than  his 
companion.  The  boat  was  unloaded.  The  bearers, 
leaving  a  pile  of  boxes  by  the  river,  formed  an 
Indian  file  and  marched  with  their  burdens  of 
necessaries  towards  the  hill.  Lionel  walked,  sup- 
ported by  Roger.  He  did  not  speak.  His  face 
worked  with  the  impotent  anger  of  a  sick  man. 
Presently  Roger  noticed  that  he  was  crying  from 
mere  nervous  weakness.  He  felt  that  it  would  be 
well  to  say  nothing.  Lionel's  petulance  was  the 
result  of  fever.  If  he  said  anything,  the  petulant 
mood  would  surely  twist  it  into  a  cause  of  offence. 
He  said  nothing.  Lionel,  after  pausing  a  minute, 
said  something  in  a  faint  voice  about  the  heat. 
Roger  had  not  noticed  the  heat.  He  had  a  glowing 
Hme-kiln  within  him.  He  stopped,  and  asked  if  it 
were  very  hot.  "  God !  "  said  Lionel  disgustedly. 
o  193 


MUL7HUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

They  walked  on,  following  the  bearers.  Presently 
Lionel  stopped  and  swore  at  the  heat.  Roger 
waited.  Each  moment  o£  waiting  was  torture  to 
him.  Each  moment  of  physical  effort  racked  him. 
He  wanted  to  fling  himself  down  and  let  the  fever 
run  its  course. 

"  God  almighty !  "  said  Lionel,  turning  on  him. 
"  Can't  you  answer  me  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  know  that  you  spoke  to  me." 
*'  You  don't  know  anything." 
"  You  were  not  speaking  to  me,  you  were  swearing 
at  the  heat." 

"  What  if  I  were  ?  " 

"  If  you  could  manage  to  keep  quiet  till  we  are 
camped,"  said  Roger,  "you'd  feel  better.  I'm 
doing  my  best  for  you." 

"  You  are,"  said  Lionel,  "  you  are.  I'm  dying 
to  see  the  sort  of  rotten  camp  you'll  make  when 
you're  left  by  yourself." 

"  Shut  up,"  said  Roger.    "  Shut  up.    I'm  too  ill 
to  talk."    The  fever  was  whirling  in  him  now.    He 
could  not  trust  himself  to  say  more.     He  was  near 
the  dehrious  stage.     He  remembered  smeUing  the 
smell  of  death,  in  a  foul  sultry  blast,  while  A4erry- 
legs  said  something  about  the  kraal  in  the  hollow. 
Looking,  half-drowsed,  to  his  left,  he  saw  a  kraal 
littered  with  dead  and  dying  cattle,  among  which 
gorged  vultures  perched.     Afterwards,  he  remem- 
bered   the    ruins   of  a  wall,  standing   now   about 
three  feet  high.     It  was  built  of  good  hewn  stone, 
well  laid,  with  one  crenellated  course  just  below 
its  present  top.    He  could  never  remember  getting 
over    the    wall.      There    were    many    sunflowers. 

194 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

Immense  orange  sunflowers  with  limp  wavy  petals. 
Sunflowers  growing  out  o£  a  litter  o£  neatly  wrought 
stones.  Mosquitoes  came  "  pinging  "  about  him, 
winding  their  sultry  horns.  Those  little  horns 
seemed  to  him  to  be  the  language  of  fever.  They 
suggested  things  to  him.  The  men  were  a  long,  long 
time  pitching  the  tent.  Something  was  wrong 
with  one  of  the  men.  The  other  men  were  keeping 
apart  from  him.  The  beds  with  their  nettings 
were  ready  at  last.  Fire  was  burning.  Something 
with  a  smell  of  soup  was  being  cooked.  In  his  sick 
fancy  it  was  the  smell  of  something  dead.  He  told 
them  to  take  it  away.  He  saw  Lionel  somewhere, 
much  as  a  man  at  the  point  of  death  may  see  the 
doctor  by  his  bedside.  He  could  not  be  sure  which 
of  the  two  of  them  was  the  living  one.  Then  there 
came  a  moment  when  he  could  not  undo  the 
fastening  of  his  mosquito  net.  He  saw  his  bed 
inside.  He  longed  to  be  in  bed.  All  this  torture 
would  be  over  directly  he  was  in  bed,  wrapped  up. 
But  he  could  not  get  in.  The  bed  was  shut  from 
him  by  the  mosquito  net.  He  wanted  to  get  in. 
He  would  give  the  world  to  be  in  bed.  But  he  did 
not  know  how  he  was  to  move  the  netting,  everything 
smelt  of  death  so  strongly.  It  was  very  red  every- 
where, a  smoky,  whirling  red,  with  violent  lights. 
People  were  crossing  the  dusk,  or  rather  not  people, 
but  streaks  of  darkness.  They  were  making  a  great 
crying  out.  They  were  too  noisy.  Why  could  they 
not  be  quiet  ?  He  ceased  to  fumble  at  the  net. 
He  began  to  see  an  endless  army  of  artillery  going 
over  a  pass.  The  men  were  all  dark  ;  the  guns  were 
all  painted  black  ;    the  horses  were  black.     They 

195 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

were  going  uphill  endlessly,  endlessly,  endlessly. 
He  cried  out  to  them  to  stop  that  driving,  to  do 
anything  rather  than  go  on  and  on  and  on  in  that 
ghastly  way.  Instantly  they  changed  to  tsetses, 
riding  on  dying  cattle.  They  were  giant  tsetses, 
with  eyes  like  cannon-balls.  An  infernal  host  of 
trypanosomes  wriggled  around  them.  The  trypano- 
somes  were  wriggling  all  over  him.  A  giant  tsetse 
was  forcing  his  mouth  open  with  a  hairy  bill,  so  that 
the  trypanosomes  might  wriggle  down  his  throat. 
A  flattened  trypanosome,  tasting  as  flabby  as  jelly, 
was  worming  over  his  lips. 

The  fit  passed  off  in  the  early  morning,  leaving 
him  weak,  but  alert.  Something  was  going  to 
happen.  The  air  was  as  close  as  a  blast  from  a 
furnace.  He  sat  up,  holding  by  the  tent-pole.  He 
could  see  a  star  or  two.  He  wished  that  the  horrible 
smell  would  go.    It  seemed  to  be  everywhere. 

"  Lionel,"  he  said. 

^'  Yes,"  said  a  faint  voice. 
Have  you  slept  ?  " 
Yes.     I've  had  a  long  sleep.     How  are  you  ?  " 

"  The  fit's  gone.  But  I  feel  queer.  Something's 
going  to  happen." 

"  It's  very  close.  It  will  pass  off  before  morning. 
Fever  plays  the  devil  with  one,  doesn't  it  ?  " 

"  Are  you  quite  better  now  ?  " 

"Yes.  I  shall  be  all  right  now.  You'll  be  all 
right  after  some  breakfast.  It  isn't  so  bad  here,  is 
it  ?" 

"  No.  Not  so  bad.  But  there's  this  smell  of 
death,  Lionel." 

"  That's  fever.    That  will  pass  away,  you'll  find." 

196 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

"  Was  I  delirious  ?  " 

"  Yes.     A  little." 

"  You  were  pretty  bad." 

"  Yes.  I  was  pretty  bad  all  yesterday,"  said 
Lionel.  "  It's  horrible  when  one  gets  into  that 
state.  One  is  so  ashamed  afterwards.  It  is  part  of 
the  sickness.  You  were  awfully  gentle  with  me, 
Roger." 

"  I  saw  that  you  were  pretty  bad.  We  shall  have 
to  get  to  work  to-morrow,  and  get  things  into 
order.  They  are  in  a  bad  way  in  the  village  there. 
There  are  twenty-nine  cases  left.  We  might  save 
sixteen  of  them." 

"  Is  there  any  trace  of  how  they  got  it  ?  Do 
they  know  ?  " 

"  They  don't  talk  any  language  known  to  Merry- 
legs." 

"  I  see.  What  are  they  like  ?  Are  they  a  good 
lot  ?  " 

"  Yes.  They  are  good  type  negroes.  They  look 
as  if  they  might  have  something  better  in  them  than 
negro  blood.  Something  Arabian.  And  there's 
this  ruin  here." 

"  It  will  be  fun  looking  at  the  ruin.  I  wonder 
if  it's  like  the  Rhodesian  ruins.  I've  seen  those. 
If  it  is,  there  ought  to  be  gold  here.  Wrought  gold 
as  well  as  crude.     But  we  mustn't  think  of  that." 

"  No.  Let's  have  no  side-issues.  I  suppose  we'd 
better  start  an  isolation  camp  to-morrow." 

"  Yes.  Get  them  all  out  and  burn  the  village. 
Then  we'll  start  the  treatment." 

"  It  would  be  rather  a  feather  in  our  caps  if  we 
found  a  tsetse-cide.     A  bird  would  be  better  than 

197 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

nothing.      Or    an    ichneumon-fly    to    pierce    the 
pupae." 

"  I  was  young  myself  once,"  said  Lionel.  "  I 
know  exactly  how  it  feels."  There  was  a  pause  after 
this.    Lionel  seemed  to  chuckle. 

"  Can't  you  go  to  sleep  again,  Lionel  ?  " 

"  No.    It's  too  close." 

"  It's  jolly  looking  at  the  stars.  And  I  can  see 
right  out  into  the  wilderness.  The  moon  is  wonder- 
ful. It  is  very  vast  out  here.  And  lonely.  It  gives 
one  a  strange  sense  of  being  full  of  memories.  I 
wonder  who  built  these  ruins." 

"  Phoenicians,  I  suppose.  In  Africa  one  puts 
everything  down  to  Phoenicians.  In  the  Mediter- 
ranean it  used  to  be  some  other  fellows  ;  now  it's 
Iberians.  Aryans  had  a  great  vogue  forty  years 
ago  ;  but  they're  dead,  now.  Then  there  were 
those  sloppy  Celts.  It'll  be  the  Hittites  when  we 
get  back." 

"  Did  you  see  Great  Zimbabwe  ?  " 

"  Yes.  But  they're  all  called  Zimbabwe.  It's  a 
native  name  for  ruins.  It's  an  uncanny  place.  It 
lies  all  open.  There's  no  roof  to  it.  None  of  them 
have  any  roof.  Nothing  but  great  high  walls,  and 
two  hideous  cones  of  stone,  and  a  lot  of  corpses 
under  the  floors.  There  are  ancient  gold  workings 
all  round  it.  It  is  said  to  be  an  astronomical  temple, 
as  well  as  the  site  of  a  great  mining  town.  Do  you 
know  much  about  astronomy  ?  " 

"  No.     I  know  Sirius." 

"  I  know  Sirius.    Can  you  see  him  ?  " 

"  I  can't  see  it  from  here.  Perhaps  it  isn't 
visible." 

198 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

"  It  seems  to  me  to  be  clouding  up.    Listen." 

"  Is  that  a  lion  roaring  ?  " 

"  Jump  out  a  minute.",  Lionel  was  turned  out, 
standing  at  the  door  of  the  tent. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  "  Roger^asked. 

"  A  thunderstorm,"  said  Lionel.  "  Get  on  your 
things.  I  prepared  for  this.  Wrap  that  tarpaulin 
round  you,  and  come  on  out.  Don't  wait.  Come  on." 

Outside  in  the  night  the  heavens  were  fast 
darkening  under  a  whirling  purplish  cloud.  From 
time  to  time  the  expanse  of  cloud  glimmered  into 
a  livid  reddish  colour  with  the  passage  of  lightning. 
It  was  as  though  the  whole  lower  heaven  lightened. 
Thunder  was  rolling.  Great  burning  streaks  tore 
the  sky  across,  loosing  thunder  and  flame.  Roger 
saw  the  bearers  moving  from  their  fire  to  the 
shelter  of  the  lee  of  the  ruins.  A  faint  sultry  blast 
fanned  against  his  face,  bringing  that  smell  of 
death  to  him.  He  turned  away,  choking.  "  Get 
away  from  the  tent,"  Lionel  shouted  in  his  ear, 
over  the  roar  of  the  thunder.  "  Tie  this  rope  round 
me.  It's  going  to  be  bad.  Get  under  the  lee  of 
the  wall  there.  Run."  They  hurried  to  the 
shelter,  on  the  tottering  legs  of  those  who  have 
just  recovered  from  fever.  As  they  ran,  Roger 
trod  on  something  rope-like  and  moving,  which 
(squirming  round)  struck  his  boot  with  a  sharp  tap. 

"  There's  a  snake,"  he  cried,  giving  a  jump. 

"  Did  he  get  you  ?  " 

"  No.     Only  my  boot." 

"  Lucky  for  you.  There  may  be  death-adders 
here.  Rattle  with  your  feet.  Here  we  are.  This 
will  do." 

199 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

I  There  came  a  sharp  pattering  of  heavy  rain- 
'drops,  which  beat  the  ground  Hke  shot  falhng  on  to 
tin.  In  the  ghmmer  of  a  long  flash,  which  burnt 
for  a  full  ten  seconds,  Roger  saw  Lionel  probing 
the  ground  for  snakes  with  an  outstretched  foot. 
He  was  hooded  and  cowled  with  tarpaulin  from  the 
boat.  He  was  scratching  a  match,  sleepy  with  heat- 
damp,  to  get  a  light  for  a  cigarette.  The  match 
flared,  putting  the  face  in  strong  colour  below  the 
shade  of  the  cowl.  The  sky  was  being  charged  by  a 
dark  host.  There  came  a  sort  of  elemental  sighing, 
as  the  obscuring  of  the  vertical  stars  began.  Out 
of  the  whole  air  came  the  sighing.  It  was  a  noise 
like  waterfalls  and  pine  forests.  Then  with  a 
shattering  crash  the  storm  burst.  The  whole  sky 
broke  into  a  blaze,  as  though  a  vast  bath  of  fire  had 
suddenly  been  hurled  over.  There  was  a  roaring 
as  of  the  earth  being  split.  After  an  instant's  pause, 
there  came  an  explosion  so  terrific  that  the  two  men 
huddled  up  together  instinctively.  It  grew  colder 
on  the  instant.  It  grew  icy  cold.  The  tent  stood 
I  out  clearly,  in  every  detail,  for  a  few  bright  seconds. 
I  Then  the  rain  poured  down,  as  though  the  bottom 
I  of  the  sky  had  broken.  The  next  flash  shewed  only  a 
streaming  greyness  of  water,  pouring  down,  with  a 
weight  and  force  new  to  Roger.  It  was  a  blinding 
rain,  one  could  not  face  it.  It  made  the  world  one 
grey  torrent.  It  made  the  earth  paste  beneath  the 
feet.  Brooks  were  rushing  down  the  hill  within 
half  a  minute  of  its  beginning.  The  flashes  and 
thundering  never  ceased.  Crouching  up  to  the 
wall,  Roger  could  only  gulp  air  that  was  half  water. 
The  force  of  the  storm  staggered  him.     The  fury 

200 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

of  the  thunder  daunted  him.  The  splendour  of  the 
hghtning  was  so  ghastly  that  at  each  blast  he  bent 
back  against  the  wall.  A  tree  was  struck  on  the 
wall  above  him.  He  expected  to  be  struck  at  each 
flash.  There  was  no  question  of  bravery.  The 
racket  and  the  glare  were  worse  than  the  fiercest 
shell-fire.  The  lightning  seemed  to  run  across  the 
sky  and  along  the  ground,  and  out  of  the  ground. 
One  smelt  it.  It  had  the  smell  of  something  burn- 
ing ;    some  metal. 

The  next  instant  he  was  digging  his  fingers  into 
the  crenellations  to  save  himself  from  being  blown 
away.  The  wind  came  swooping  down  with  a  rush 
which  beat  the  breath  out  of  him.  For  one  second 
the  rain  seemed  to  pause.  It  was  merely  changing 
its  direction  to  the  horizontal.  The  air  seemed  to 
be  no  longer  present.  There  was  nothing  but  a 
rushing,  stinging,  blinding  torrent  of  water.  After 
the  wind  began,  Roger  was  not  properly  conscious 
of  anything.  He  stood  backed  up  to  the  wall,  with 
his  eyes  and  mouth  tight  shut,  his  ears  buffeted  and 
streaming,  his  nose  wrinkled  by  the  effort  to  keep 
his  eyes  shut.  Across  his  eyelids  he  sensed  the 
glimmer  of  the  lightning,  now  blinding,  now 
merely  vivid.  Everything  else  was  leaping,  howling 
uproar,  driving  wet,  driving  cold,  dominated  by 
the  explosions  aloft.  All  confusion  was  let  loose  to 
feed  the  fear  of  death  in  him.  So  they  stood 
shoulder  to  shoulder,  for  something  like  an  hour, 
when  a  change  came. 

The  wind  died  away,  after  blowing  its  fiercest. 
The  rain  stopped.  The  livid  glimmering  of  the 
lightning  passed  off  into  the  distance.     The  stars 

201 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

came  out.  Roger  squelched  about  in  the  mud, 
trying  to  get  some  sensation  into  his  freezing  feet. 
Lionel's  teeth  were  chattering.  Lionel  with  numbed 
fingers  was  trying  to  light  a  sopping  match  for  the 
sodden  cigarette  already  between  his  lips. 

"  Pretty  bad  one,"  said  Lionel.  "  The  tent's 
gone." 

]  "  It  will  be  dawn  soon,"  said  Roger,  looking  at 
the  wreck  of  the  tent.  "  It's  over  now."  He 
shivered. 

i     "  Not  yet,"  said  Lionel.    "  That's  only  half  of  it. 
I  There's  the  other  half  to  come  yet.    I  wonder  how 
the  bearers  took  it." 

"  I'll  go  and  see,"  said  Roger. 

"  Stay  where  you  are,"  said  Lionel.  "  You  won't 
have  time."  The  moon  shewed  for  a  brief  moment 
— a  sickly  moon  already  threatened  by  scud.  The 
clouds  were  rolling  up  again. 

"  This  will  be  in  our  faces,"  said  Lionel,  raising 
his  voice.  "  These  are  circular  storms."  The  wind 
was  muttering  far  off.  All  the  earth  was  filled  with 
a  gloomy  murmur.  "  Let's  get  into  the  wreck  of 
the  tent,"  Lionel  added  in  a  shout.  "  Into  the 
wreck  of  the  tent.  We  may  die  of  cold  if  we  don't." 
They  hove  up  the  heavy  canvas  so  that  they  might 
creep  within,  under  the  folds.  They  cowered  there 
close  together,  waiting,  chilled  to  the  bone. 

"  It's  jolly  cold,"  said  Roger,  with  chattering 
teeth. 

"  Yes,"  said  Lionel.     "  I've  known  a  man  die  in 
X  one  of  these.    Hold  tight.    Here  it  comes." 
j      It  came  with  such  a  shock  of  thunder  and  fire  of 
'lightning  that  they  both  started.     They  felt  the 

202 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

folds  of  the  tent  surge  and  lift  above  them  as  the 
wind  beat  upon  it.  Some  flap  had  blown  loose.  It 
flogged  at  Roger  like  a  bar  of  hard  wood.  He  under- 
stood then  what  sailors  meant  by  wind.  He  felt  a 
sort  of  exultation  for  a  moment.  Then  one 
terrible  blast  flung  him  on  his  side,  and  rolled  a 
great  weight  of  wet  canvas  on  him.  He  felt  it 
quiver  and  hesitate.  The  wind  seemed  to  be 
heaving  and  heaving,  with  multitudinous  little 
howling  devils.  They  were  heaving  up  and  heaving 
under.  The  whole  mass  hesitated.  He  was  moved, 
he  was  swayed.  He  felt  the  fabric  pause  and  totter 
upward  and  sink  down.  "  We're  going,"  he 
muttered,  gulping.  Afterwards,  he  maintained 
that  nothing  but  the  weight  of  the  rain  kept  him 
from  being  blown  away.  Water  was  gurgling  in  the 
ground  beneath  him.  Water  was  running  up  his 
sleeves,  and  down  his  neck.  Water  spouted  on  him 
as  he  beat  away  the  folds  to  get  air.  A  grand  and 
ghastly  fire  was  running  across  heaven.  Shocks 
were  striking  the  earth  all  round  him.  Another 
tree  was  blasted.  Thunder  broke  out  above  in  a 
long  rippling  crescendo  of  splitting  cracks.  That, 
and  the  pouring  of  a  cataract  into  his  face  made 
him  draw  back  the  fold.  He  cowered.  He  had 
lost  touch  with  Lionel.  He  did  not  know  where 
Lionel  was.  His  foot  struck  something  hard. 
Groping  down,  hungry  for  companionship,  he 
found  that  it  was  the  broken  tent-pole.  Another 
gust  lifted  him.  It  gathered  strength.  It  swept 
the  folds  from  his  hands  and  sent  the  edge  flogging, 
flogging,  flogging,  with  its  lashes  of  rope  and  tent- 
pegs.    The  full  fury  of  the  storm  was  on  him.    The 

203 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

tent  was  bundling  itself  up  into  ruin  against  the 
boxes.  He  was  sitting  in  wet  mud  assailed  by  every 
devil  of  bad  weather.  Lionel  was  by  his  side  shout- 
ing into  his  ear.  "  Don't  stand,"  came  the  far- 
away voice.  "  Get  struck."  He  nodded  when 
next  the  flames  ran  round.  It  seemed  likely  that 
he  would  be  struck.  It  was  a  quick  death,  so  people 
said.  He  found  himself  saying  aloud  that  it  would 
be  terrible  if  Lionel  were  struck.  What  then  ? 
What  would  he  do  then  ?  He  craned  round  into 
the  beating  rain  to  try  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the 
bearers.  He  could  see  nothing  but  rain  and  that 
reddish  running  glimmer  of  living  light. 

He  did  not  feel  much.  He  was  too  cold,  too 
weak,  too  frightened.  If  he  had  been  able  to  define 
his  feelings  he  would  have  said  that  he  was  thinking 
it  impossible  that  he  could  ever  have  been  dry,  or 
warm,  or  happy.  His  old  life  was  a  far-off  inconceiv- 
able dream.  That  he  had  ever  sat  by  a  fire  seemed 
inconceivable.  That  there  was  such  a  thing  as  a 
sun  seemed  inconceivable.  That  life  could  be 
dignified,  tender,  or  heroic  seemed  inconceivable. 
"  If  this  isn't  misery,"  he  muttered,  shaking,  "  I 
don't  know  what  is.  I  don't  know  what  is."  He 
felt  suddenly  that  water  was  running  under  him 
in  a  good  strong  stream,  several  inches  deep.  Put- 
ting his  hand  down,  it  slopped  up  to  the  wrist  in  a 
current.  He  groped  with  his  hand.  As  he  put  it 
down  some  beetle  in  the  water  pinched  him  briskly, 
turning  him  sick  for  a  moment  with  the  memory 
of  the  snake  which  had  struck  his  boot.  Standing 
up  hurriedly,  the  water  rose  above  his  boots.  Look- 
up, an  opening  in  the  clouds  vshewed  him  the  moon, 

204 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

a  beaten  swimmer  in  a  mill-race.     The  storm  was 
breaking. 

Not  long  after  that  it  broke.  The  stars  came  out. 
The  wind  ceased  from  her  whirling  about  continu- 
ally. She  blew  steady,  in  a  brisk  fresh  gale,  bring- 
ing up  the  clearing  showers.  The  showers  would 
have  seemed  torrents  at  other  times,  but  to  Roger, 
now,  they  were  little  drizzles.  Lionel  and  he 
found  a  sort  of  cave  in  the  tent.  Part  of  the 
canvas  had  wedged  itself  under  the  pole.  The 
rest  had  then  blown  across  a  pile  of  boxes  on  to  the 
wall.  Being  supported  now  by  those  two  uprights 
it  roofed  in  a  narrow  shelter  about  five  feet  long. 
They  crept  into  this  shelter,  dead  beat  from  the 
cold.  For  a  while  they  sat  crouched  close  together, 
with  chattering  teeth.  Then  they  drew  a  few  folds 
of  the  canvas  over  them  and  lay  still,  trying  to  get 
warmth  and  sleep.  They  were  not  very  sure  that 
they  would  live  to  see  the  dawn.  Roger  thought 
vaguely  of  the  bearers.  He  wondered  what  they 
had  done,  prompted  by  their  knowledge  of  these 
storms.  A  dull,  heavy,  steady  roaring  noise  seemed 
to  be  coming  from  the  river.  He  wondered  if  the 
water  had  risen  much,  after  all  that  torrential  rain. 
Thinking  vaguely  of  a  flood,  he  wondered  if  the 
boat  were  safe.  It  seemed  a  long,  long  time  since 
they  had  left  the  boat.  He  must  have  left  the 
boat  in  some  other  life.  The  sun  had  been  shining, 
he  had  been  hot,  he  had  passed  through  a  glorious 
landscape.  He  had  seen  the  peacocks  of  the  Queen 
of  Sheba  jetting  among  flowers  which  were  like 
burning  precious  stones.  That  was  long  ago. 
That   was   over  for   ever.      But  yet  he  wondered 

205 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

vaguely  about  the  boat.  Was  it  safe,  there  in  the 
broad  ? 

"  Lionel,"  he  said  gently.    "  Can  you  sleep  ?  " 

"  No.    We  shall  get  warm  presently." 

"  It's  jolly  wretched." 

"  It'll  be  all  right  when  we  get  warm.  Don't 
let's  talk." 

"  Is  the  boat  all  right,  do  you  think  ?  The 
water  is  roaring  in  the  river." 

"  The  boat  ?  I  can't  think  about  the  boat.  She 
was  moored  or  something."  Their  teeth  chattered 
again  for  some  little  time.  Presently,  as  they  lay 
there  shivering,  they  felt  the  uneasy  aching  warmth 
which  sometimes  comes  to  those  who  sleep  in  wet 
clothes.  It  is  much  such  an  unpleasant  heat  as 
wet  grass  generates  in  a  rick.  There  is  cramp  and 
pain  in  it.  The  muscles  rise  up  into  little  knots 
and  bunch  themselves.  Still,  it  is  heat  of  a  kind. 
They  lay  awake,  rubbing  their  contorted  muscles, 
until,  a  little  before  the  dawn,  they  were  warm 
enough  to  doze.  They  dozed  off,  then,  waking  up, 
from  time  to  time,  generally  once  in  ten  minutes,  to 
turn  uneasily,  so  that  the  aching  muscles  might 
cease  to  twist  into  little  knots  and  bunches. 


206 


IX 

where  be  these  cannibals,  these  varlets? 

The  Shoemaker  s  Holiday. 

THE  rain  ceased  before  dawn.  When  the  two 
friends  felt  strong  enough  to  turn  out,  the 
sun  was  already  burning.  It  was  after  half-past 
seven  o'clock.  The  brooks  which  had  washed  past 
them  and  over  them,  only  three  or  four  hours  before, 
were  no  longer  running.  Their  tracks  were  marked 
on  the  hillside,  in  broad,  shallow,  muddy  ruts,  and 
in  paths  of  plastered  grass.  The  river  had  been 
over  its  banks  not  long  before.  It  was  swirling 
along  now,  brimful,  as  red  as  water  from  an  iron- 
works. Roger  remembered  the  water  running  by 
a  road  near  Portobe,  from  some  ironworks  up  the 
hill.  It  was  just  that  savage  colour.  He  felt  a 
qualm  of  home-sickness.  He  turned  to  blink  at  the 
sun  for  the  pleasure  of  the  warmth  upon  his  face. 
The  camp  was  a  quag  of  mud.  Red  splashes 
plastered  the  boxes.  The  tent  was  half-buried  in 
it.  His  clothes,  and  the  covering  tarpaulin,  were 
smeared  with  it.  He  felt  that  it  had  been  worked, 
not  only  into  his  skin,  but  into  his  nature.  He  had 
never  before  known  what  it  is  to  be  really  dirty, 
nor  what  continued  dirt  may  mean  to  the  character. 
The  site  of  the  camp  was  trodden  and  spattered 
and  beslimed,  yet  the  brightness  of  the  morning 
made  it  hard  for  him  to  believe  that  such  a  storm 

207 


MULTITUDE    AND    SOLITUDE 

had  passed  over  him  only  a  little  while  before. 
He  noticed  the  trees  which  had  been  blasted  by  the 
lightning.     It  had  not  all  been  a  nightmare. 

Up  the  hill,  beyond  three  small  circUng  walls, 
no   taller  than   the  wall   beside  him,   rose  up   the 
great  central  walls.     They  stood  out  clearly  in  the 
strong  light.     They   were   good,   well-built   walls, 
with  crenellated  courses  near  the  top,  in  the  right 
artistic  place,  in  the  inevitable  place.     The  crenel- 
lations  shewed  Roger  that  he  was  not  widely  re- 
moved from  the  builders,  in  spirit.     They  talked 
the  universal  language  of  art.     But  they  were  more 
than    talkers,    these    old    men.     Their    work    was 
splendid.     It  had  style.     It  had  the  impress  of  will 
upon  it.     The  idea  had  been  thought  out  to  its 
simplest   terms.     The   walls   were   solid   with   that 
simple    strength    which    the    efficient    nations    of 
antiquity,  not  yet  corrupted  by  sentiment,  affected, 
in   pubHc   building.     Though   they  were   not  like 
Roman   work,    they   reminded   Roger   of   walls  ^  at 
Richborough  and  Caerwent.     There  was  something 
of  the  same  pagan  spirit  in  them,  something  strong, 
and  fine,  and  uncanny.     Even  with  the  flowering 
shrubs  and  grass  clumps  on  them,  these  walls  were 
uncanny.     He  shivered   a   Httle.     The  lonely  hill 
had  once  been  a  city,  where  strong,  fine,  uncanny 
brains  had  lived. 

Lionel  crawled  out.  "  Where's  Merrylegs  ?  " 
he  asked.     "  Why  haven't  they  brought  our  tea  ?  " 

Roger  started.  Where  were  the  bearers  ?  He 
had  not  seen  them  since  he  had  noticed  them  go  to 
cover  before  the  bursting  of  the  storm.  They  had 
gone.     They  had  not  come  back.     They  had  not 

208 


MULTHUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

even  lighted  a  fire.  "  I  don't  know  where  they 
are,"  he  said.     "  Where  can  they  be  ?  " 

"  Haven't  you  seen  them  ?  "  said  Lionel. 

"  No,"  he  answered.  "  They're  not  here.  Merry- 
legs  !  "  he  shouted.  "  Merrylegs !  "  No  answer  came. 

Lionel's  face  changed  slightly.  He  jumped  on  to 
the  low  wall,  and  looked  downhill  towards  the 
village.  The  view  over  that  waste  o£  pale  grass, 
through  which  the  river  ran,  was  very  splendid  ; 
but  Lionel  was  not  looking  for  landscape.  "  Give 
me  the  glasses,"  he  said.  He  stared  through  them 
for  several  minutes,  sweeping  the  plain.  "  Run  up 
into  the  ruins,  Roger,"  said  Lionel.  "  They  may  be 
there." 

"  Wait  one  minute,"  said  Roger.  "  There  is 
smoke  in  the  village.  That  is  too  big  a  fire  for  the 
people  whom  I  saw  there  to  have  made." 

"  Wet  wood,"  said  Lionel  promptly.  "  Come  on. 
We  must  get  these  boys  into  order." 

They  hurried  up  the  hill,  calling  for  Merrylegs. 
After  a  couple  of  minutes  Roger  stopped.  "  Lionel," 
he  said.  "  During  the  storm,  or  just  before  it,  I 
saw  them  go  to  shelter  under  the  lee  of  the  wall 
there.  Their  tracks  will  be  in  the  mud.  We  could 
follow  them  up  in  that  way." 

"  Yes,"  said  Lionel.  "  They're  not  up  here,  any- 
how." 

After  some  little  search,  they  found  where  the 
bearers  had  sheltered  before  the  storm  threatened. 
A  vulture  shewed  them  the  exact  place.  Two 
other  vultures  were  there  already.  The  storm  had 
killed  one  of  the  men. 

"  It's  Rukwo,  the  lazy  one,"  said  Lionel.  "  I 
r  209 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

noticed  last  night  that  there  was  something  the 
matter  with  him.  Perhaps  you  saw  how  the  others 
fought  shy  o£  him.  These  fellows  are  like  animals, 
aren't  they,  in  the  way  they  leave  their  sick  ?  " 
He  looked  at  the  body.  "  Dysentery  and  the  cold, 
I  suppose,"  he  said.  "  With  Kilemba  dead  last 
night,  the  village  full  of  dead  down  below  us,  the 
storm,  then  this  fellow  dying,  it  has  been  too  much 
for  them.  I'm  afraid,  Roger,  that  the  men  have 
deserted  us." 

"  Gone  ?  "  said  Roger  blankly.  It  had  not 
occurred  to  him  before  as  a  possibility. 

"  I'm  afraid,"  said  Lionel,  moving  away.  "  Here 
is  where  they  sheltered  for  the  storm.  There  are 
their  tracks  leading  downhill.  You  see  ?  Here. 
See  ?  Still  half  full  of  water.  They  cleared  out 
in  the  night  during  the  showers.  They've  got 
three  or  four  hours'  start  of  us." 

"  Well,"  said  Roger.  "  Come  on.  We'd  better 
eat  as  we  go.  Otherwise  we  may  never  catch  them 
up." 

"  They'll  have  gone  in  the  boat,"  said  Lionel. 
"  With  this  flood  they'll  be  a  day's  march  down- 
stream. There's  no  trace  of  the  boat  in  the  lagoon 
there." 

"  She  may  have  been  swept  away,"  said  Roger, 
after  a  glance  through  the  glasses.  "  The  stores  are 
there  still."  By  this  time  they  were  hurrying  down- 
hill towards  the  village.  Both  were  thinking  how 
fiercely  they  would  thrash  Merrylegs  and  how 
little  chance  there  was  of  finding  any  Merrylegs  to 
thrash.  Anger  burned  up  in  hot  bursts,  and  the 
cold  water  of  despair  put  it  out  again.     Roger  felt 

2IO 


MULTITUDE    AND    SOLITUDE 

it  more  keenly  than  Lionel.  He  was  less  used  to 
the  shocks  of  travel.  He  wondered,  as  he  hurried, 
what  stores  had  been  left  in  the  boat,  and  what  had 
been  piled  on  the  bank  to  be  carried  up  next  day. 
He  had  been  ill ;  he  had  never  noticed.  The  men 
had  done  as  they  pleased.  He  reproached  himself 
so  bitterly  that  he  hardly  dared  look  at  his  friend. 
He  wondered  whether  the  men  had  taken  any- 
thing of  supreme  importance.  He  feared  the 
worst.  If  they  had  taken  anything  important  he 
would  be  to  blame.  It  was  his  fault.  He  ought  to 
have  guarded  against  this.  He  ought  to  have  taken 
the  paddles.  He  ought  to  have  ordered  the  men  to 
bring  everything  up  to  camp,  where  it  would  have 
been  under  his  own  eyes.  Lionel  looked  at  him 
quizzically. 

"  Don't  cross  the  river  till  you  reach  the  water," 
he  said.  "  We  may  catch  them.  They  may  not 
have  gone." 

On  their  way  they  looked  through  the  village. 
The  bearers  were  not  there.  Lionel  tried  to  make 
the  villagers  understand  him  by  signs ;  but  they 
were  too  strongly  infected  to  understand  a  difficult 
thing.  He  had  to  give  them  up.  He  bade  Roger 
fill  his  pockets  with  some  bruised  corn  which  they 
found  in  one  of  the  pots  of  an  empty  hut.  They 
munched  this  as  they  went.  Their  next  task  was 
to  run  out  the  trail. 

By  the  village  drinking-place  the  river  had  over- 
flowed the  bank.  It  had  torn  up  a  couple  of  trees, 
which  now  lay  branches  downward  in  the  water, 
arresting  wreckage.  It  had  surged  strongly  against 
the  boxes,  driving  them  from  their  place,  but  not 

211 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

destroying  them.  It  had  heaped  them  with  drift, 
and  coloured  them  a  yellowish  red.  The  foot- 
marks of  the  bearers  were  thickly  printed  in  the 
mud  there.  They  must  have  arrived  there  in  the 
early  morning,  when  the  waters  were  beginning  to 
fall. 

"  They've  been  busy,"  said  Roger.  All  the  boxes 
had  been  broken  open.  Their  contents  were 
tumbled  in  the  mud  in  all  directions. 

"  Look  here,"  said  Lionel.  "  What  do  you  make 
of  these  marks  ?  "  In  one  place  the  mud  had  been 
planed  smooth  in  a  long  plastering  smear,  ending  in 
a  notch  or  narrow  groove. 

"  That  was  made  by  the  boat,"  said  Roger. 

"  Yes,"  said  Lionel.  "  That  was  the  boat.  You 
can  see  the  puncture  in  the  mud  there.  That  was 
made  by  the  projecting  screw  in  the  false  nose. 
You  remember  the  screw  we  put  in  at  Malakoto  ? 
They  shoved  off  here." 

"  Yes.  No  doubt.  That  is  the  screw.  So 
they've  sampled  the  goods  and  gone." 

"  That  is  so.  They've  robbed  us  and  run 
away." 

"  And  we  are  stranded  in  the  heart  of  the  wilder- 
ness ?  " 

"  We  are  alone,  three  hundred  miles  from  any 
white  man." 

"  Yes.  Then  we  are  alone,"  said  Roger.  "  We 
are  alone  here."  The  words  thrilled  him.  They 
were  meaning  words. 

"  We  can't  go  after  them,"  said  Lionel. 
"  They've  got  too  big  a  start." 

"  We've  got  no  boat  to  go  in." 

212 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 


"  I  wish,"  said  Lionel,  "  I  wish  these  riverine 
negroes  used  canoes." 

"  They  don't." 

"  No,"  said  Lionel.  "  They  don't.  Well.  It's 
no  good  moping." 

"  We  could  follow  downstream,"  said  Roger, 
"  and  perhaps  catch  them  at  Malakoto." 

Lionel  shook  his  head.  "  There  are  the  swamps," 
he  said.  "  And  we've  both  got  fever  on  us.  I 
doubt  if  we  could  get  through.     We  might." 

"  We  shall  have  to  try  it  in  the  end,  if  we  are  to 
get  away  at  all." 

"  I  was  thinking  that,"  said  Lionel.  "  But  when 
we  try  it,  it  will  be  the  end  of  the  dry  season,  when 
the  swamps  will  be  passable.  The  swamps  now  are 
as  bad  as  they  can  be.  Honestly,  Roger,  I  don't 
think  we  could  make  Malakoto,  carrying  our  own 
stores.  It's  ten  days  ;  and  those  others  wouldn't 
stay  at  Malakoto,  remember.  They'd  make  for 
Kisa.  No.  Best  give  in.  They've  won  the 
trick." 

"  And  we're  to  lose  all  these  stores  ;  about  a 
hundred  pounds'  worth  of  stores  ?  " 

"  That's  the  minimum,  I'm  afraid." 

"  It's  a  bad  beginning,"  said  Roger.  He  walked 
to  and  fro,  fretting.  "  Doesn't  it  make  your  blood 
boil  ?  "  he  continued.  "  Look  at  the  way  the 
brutes  have  tossed  the  things  about.  I'd  give  a 
good  deal  to  have  a  few  of  them  here." 

Lionel  sat  down  on  a  box  and  stared  meditatively 
at  the  wreck.  "  Roger,"  he  said  at  length.  "  Have 
you  any  idea  what  stores  were  brought  up  the  hill 
last  night  ?  " 

213 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

"  Mostly  the  bow-stores,  I  suppose ;  provisions, 
bedding,  and  camp  gear." 

"  That's  what  I  was  afraid,"  said  Lionel. 

"  What  are  you  afraid  of  ?  " 

"  Come  on.  Let's  face  it,"  said  Lionel,  spring- 
ing from  his  perch.  "  We  must  get  these  things 
out  of  the  mud.     We  must  see  how  we  stand." 

"  You    mean    we    may    be What    do    you 

mean  ?  " 

"  We  must  see  what  stores  are  left  to  us." 

They  set  to  work  together  to  pick  up  the  wreck. 
They  began  with  cartridges,  which  had  been 
scattered  broadcast  in  wantonness.  Many  were 
spoiled  ;  many  missing.  Marks  on  the  grass  shewed 
that  others  had  been  carefully  emptied,  so  that  the 
thieves  might  have  the  brass  shells  enclosing  the 
charges.  Still,  a  good  many  were  to  be  found. 
The  two  men  recovered  about  fifty  rounds  of 
Winchester,  and  eighty  rounds  of  revolver  ammu- 
nition. With"  what  they  wore  in  their  belts  this 
amount  was  reassuring. 

"  Look  here,"  said  Roger.  "  Here's  a  box  of 
slides.     They're  all  smashed." 

"  Was  the  microscope  not  brought  up  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Roger.  "  It  was  in  a  box 
with  a  blue  stencil." 

"  I  know,"  said  Lionel.     "  I've  been  looking  out 
for   it.     I    thought   it   wasn't   here.     Look.     Over 
there.     There's  part  of  a  lid  with  a  blue  stencil. 
Is  that  the  lid  for  the  microscope  ?  " 
No,  that's  a  drugs  lid." 

They  can't  have  taken  it  with  them.     Surely 
they  wouldn't  take  a  microscope." 

214 


MULTITUDE    AND    SOLITUDE 

"  It  might  be  up  in  the  camp  all  this  time." 

"  Yes.  True.  Wait.  We'll  get  these  things 
out  of  the  mud,  and  then  we'll  go  up  the  hill,  and 
make  a  list  of  what  is  missing.  Here's  our  stationery 
ruined.  All  our  nice  clean  temperature  charts 
that  I  set  such  store  by.  I  told  you  life  was  waste- 
ful out  here.  All  your  pressed  plants  are  done 
for." 

"  Here  are  clothes,  of  sorts.     Jaeger  underwear." 

"  Fish  them  out.  We'll  wash  them  after- 
wards." 

They  quartered  the  expanse  of  red  slime.  It 
was  a  sort  of  Tom  Tiddler's  ground,  littered  with 
European  goods.  They  worked  quickly,  racing 
the  sun.  From  time  to  time  there  came  hails  of 
"The  tool-chest's  gone.  Here's  the  lid."  "Your 
small  stores  won't  be  much  good,  the  soap's  melted 
or  something."  "  Look  at  what  these  brutes  have 
done  to  the  sugar." 

Presently  Lionel  hailed. 

"  I  say.  I  say.  Have  you  come  across  any 
drugs  ?  " 

"  No.     Only  the  Ud  of  a  drugs  box." 

"  Well.  It's  getting  serious.  There's  no  other 
box  here.  We  must  go  on  back  to  camp  and  find 
out  if  they  are  there." 

"  We  shall  be  done,  without  drugs,"  said  Roger. 

"  Don't  talk  about  it,  my  dear  man,"  said  Lionel. 
"  Don't  talk  about  it." 

"  It  would  be  worth  while  making  a  raft,"  said 
Roger.  "  There  are  a  couple  of  axes  in  camp. 
If  we  worked  hard  all  morning,  we  could  get  a 
sort  of  a  raft  built.     We  could  use  the  tent-ropes 

215 


MULTITUDE    AND    SOLITUDE 

for  lashings.     Then  we  could  easily  rig  up  a  sail. 
We  should  catch  them  up  by  dusk,  perhaps." 

"  There  are  points  about  the  raft  theory,"  said 
Lionel,  as  they  set  out  for  camp.  "  But  there  are 
so  many  creeks  and  gullies  where  they  could  hide, 
and  then  there  are  the  crocks." 

"  We  could  build  a  sort  of  bulwark  of  boxes." 

"  We'll  find  out  about  the  drugs  first.  No.  If 
we  go  working  hard  in  the  sun  we  shall  get  fever 
again."  He  wrinkled  his  brows.  He  was  anxious. 
"  I  hope,  those  drugs  are  all  right,"  he  said.  "  I 
don't  mind  the  guns  ;  but  our  drugs  are  portable 
life." 

Roger  glanced  uneasily  at  Lionel.  He  had  got 
to  know  him  pretty  well  during  the  last  few  months. 
He  had  come  to  know  that  though  he  was  some- 
times irritable,  he  was  very  seldom  given  to  despon- 
dent speech.  Now  he  was  talking  anxiously,  from 
the  selfish  standpoint  of  "  L"  Roger  thought  of 
the  precious  bottles  of  atoxyl,  worth  a  good  deal 
more  than  a  guinea  an  ounce.  Lionel's  remark 
was  true.  They  were  portable  life.  And  if  the 
atoxyl  were  gone,  their  mission  was  at  an  end.  No. 
It  was  worse  than  that.  If  the  atoxyl  were  gone, 
Lionel  was  in  danger.  For  suppose  the  trypano- 
somes  recurred  in  him,  as  they  might,  in  this  hot 
climate  ?  Suppose  Lionel  developed  sleeping  sick- 
ness and  died,  as  the  people  in  the  village  were 
dying,  before  they  could  win  to  civilization  ?  He 
did  not  find  any  answer  to  the  problem.  Hoping 
to  distract  Lionel,  he  began  gallantly  to  talk  of  the 
Phoenicians,  about  whom  he  was  sufficiently  ignorant 
to  escape  attention. 

216 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

In  the  camp  things  were  as  they  had  been,  except 
that  they  were  drier.  They  turned  over  the  boxes, 
looking  eagerly  for  blue  stencil. 

"  Here's  the  microscope,"  said  Roger.  "  Or  I 
think  it  is."  He  prized  the  case  open  with  the 
jemmy  on  the  end  o£  the  peg-maul.  "  Yes. 
The  microscope's  all  right.  Some  of  our  test- 
tube  things  are  smashed.  Some  of  the  media. 
There  are  plenty  of  those,  though,  down  in  the 
mud.  That's  one  thing  to  the  good.  What's  in 
the  case  there  ?  " 

"  Anti-scorbutics  here." 

"  And  in  the  long  box  ?  " 

"  Grub  of  different  kinds." 

"  Here  you  are,  then.     Here's  a  drugs  case." 

"Saved!" 

"  Shall  I  open  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  open  it.  We  did  a  very  foolish  thing, 
Roger.  We  ought  to  have  packed  each  box  as  a 
miniature  equipment,  so  as  to  minimize  the  im- 
portance of  any  losses.  It's  in  my  mind  that  all  our 
atoxyl  is  in  one  case." 

"  No,"  said  Roger.  "  It  was  in  three  cases. 
One  of  them,  I  know,  was  in  the  boat.  I  was 
sitting  on  it  most  of  yesterday." 

"  Well.  Open  that  one,  and  let's  see  where  we 
stand." 

The  well-fixed  screws  were  drawn.  The  box 
lay  open  to  the  sun,  exuding  a  faint,  cleanly  smell 
of  camphor. 

Lionel  looked  over  the  drug  pots,  muttering  the 
names  :  "  Mercury  bi-chlor,  sodium  carb,  sodium 
chlor,    sodium    cit,    corrosive    sublimate,    quinine, 

217 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

quinine,  quinine,  potassium  bromide — we  shan't 
want  much  of  that — absolute  alcohol,  carbolic, 
first-aid  dressings,  chlorodjne,  morphia,  camphor- 
ated chalk  for  the  teeth,  what's  this  ? — 'digitalis. 
What  the  devil  did  they  send  that  for  ?  There's 
no  atoxyl  here." 

"  Nor  that  other  stuff,  the  dye,  trypanroth  ?  " 

"  No.  We  didn't  order  any.  It  wasn't  alto- 
gether a  success  with  me,  and  it  wasn't  being  so  well 
spoken  of." 

"  That's  unfortunate.  But  wait  a  minute.  I 
see  another  drug  case.  Over  there,  against  the 
wall.     Isn't  that  a  drug  case  ?  " 

"  It  is.  Chuck  the  jemmy  over,"  He  did  not 
wait  to  draw  the  screws.  He  prized  the  lid  off  with 
two  quick  wrenches  of  the  jemmy.  He  looked  in- 
side. 

"  A  quaker,"  he  said  grimly,  after  one  look.  "  It's 
a  quaker  case." 

"  What's  a  quaker  ?  " 

"  This  case  here  is  what  we  call  a  quaker.  Why  ? 
Because  it  makes  one  quake.  Look  at  these  bottles. 
They're  full  of  paper  and  sawdust.  Look  at  this 
one.  Old  rags.  Here's  a  2-lb.  atoxyl  bottle,  for 
which  we  paid  twenty-eight  pounds,  not  to  speak 
of  the  duty.     It's  full  of  dust  like  the  rest. 

"  But,  good  Lord,  Lionel !  Where  could  it  have 
been  done  ?  Who  could  have  done  it  ?  We  got 
these  direct  from  the  very  best  London  house." 

"  There  were  rats  on  the  way,"  said  Lionel. 
"  You  remember  we  stopped  off  a  day  at  that  place 
Kwasi  Bembo,  where  we  hired  Merrylegs  ?  Well. 
This  was  probably  done  at  Kwasi  Bembo,  by  one 

218 


MULTITUDE    AND    SOLITUDE 


one 


of    those    foreign    storekeepers.     An    easy    way    of 
making  money  for  them." 

"  I  don't  see  how  he  did  it." 

"  Oh,  he  could  have  done  it  easily  enough, 
while  we  were  having  our  siestas.  It  doesn't 
matter  much,  though,  where  it  was  done,  does 
it  ?  " 

"  Don't  despair  yet,"  said  Roger.  "  There  must 
be  another  box  somewhere.  Here.  Open  this 
one.  The  stencil  is  ground  off.  What's  inside  this 
?  " 

It  looks  promising,"  said  Lionel.  "  It's  screwed  ; 
it  isn't  nailed.  Off,  now."  He  thrust  the  lid  away 
with  a  violent  heave.     Roger  peered  in  anxiously. 

"  Nothing  but  stones  in  this  one,"  said  Lionel. 
"  Not  even  our  bottles  left.  We'd  better  open  all 
our  cases,  and  find  out  what  else  has  been  taken. 
I  suppose  that's  our  last  box  of  chemicals  ?  " 

"  It's  the  last  here." 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Roger.  "  We  won't  despair. 
Let's  see  what  is  left  to  us."  They  examined  the 
other  cases.  They  made  out  an  inventory  of  their 
possessions.  They  learned  that  they  were  left  in 
the  heart  of  Africa  with  provisions  for  three 
months,  forty  pounds'  weight  of  anti-scorbutics, 
a  quantity  of  clothing,  a  moderate  supply  of 
ammunition,  two  rifles,  two  revolvers,  a  shot-gun, 
many  disinfectants,  an  assortment  of  choice  drugs, 
some  medical  instruments,  and  a  microscope.  Of 
medical  comforts  they  had  sparklets,  tobacco,  soap, 
matches,  and  two  bottles  of  brandy.  Of  quaker 
cases  they  found,  in  all,  five,  all  of  them  purporting 
to  be  either  chemicals  or  cartridges.     Of  utensils 

219 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

they  had  a  tin  basin,  plates,  and  pannikins.  For 
shelter  they  had  a  tent  with  a  broken  pole. 

"  Lionel,"  said  Roger,  when  they  had  checked 
their  list.  "  Look  here.  We've  been  up  here  a 
good  hour  and  a  half.  The  water  will  have  fallen 
a  foot  or  more.  By  the  time  we  have  cooked  and 
eaten  breakfast  it  will  have  fallen  another  foot.  It 
is  quite  possible  that  by  that  time  there  will  be 
some  more  goods,  perhaps,  even,  some  more  cases, 
left  high  and  dry  on  the  bank.  We  won't  worry 
about  our  loss  till  we  know  it.  If  we  breakfast  now 
we  shall  be  strong  enough  to  bear  whatever  may  be 
coming  to  us.  Let's  get  a  fire  started.  We'll 
brew  some  tea  and  sacrifice  a  tin  of  soup.  Let's 
be  extravagant  and  enjoy  ourselves." 

They  were  sufficiently  extravagant  over  breakfast, 
but  they  got  little  enjoyment  out  of  it.  They 
had  rankling  anger  in  them,  against  their  enemies, 
known  and  unknown.  When  their  anger  gave  them 
leave,  they  felt,  low  down,  a  chilling,  sinking  fear 
that  their  plans  for  the  saving  of  life  would  come 
to  nothing,  that,  in  short,  their  expedition  was  a 
failure. 

"  Lionel,"  said  Roger.  "  Do  you  think  that  the 
fraud  of  the  atoxyl  was  done  in  London  ?  Surely 
Morris  and  Henslow  wouldn't  do  a  thing  like  that?" 

"  Who  knows  what  they  won't  do  ?  "  said  Lionel 
gloomily.  "  I  know  that  some  contractor  or  other 
always  supplies  shoddy  of  some  kind  to  an  ex- 
pedition to  one  of  the  Poles.  Why  not  to  us  ? 
There  is  always  the  chance  that  the  expedition 
won't  return.  And  even  if  it  does  return,  the 
fraud  is  quite  likely  not  to  become  known  to  the 

220 


MUL1HUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

public.  And  even  i£  the  case  comes  on  in  a  law 
court,  who  can  prove  it  ?  There  are  too  many 
loopholes.  It  is  almost  impossible  to  bring  the 
guilt  really  home.  The  contractor  practically 
never  gets  found  out.  As  for  a  contractor  being 
punished,  I  don't  suppose  it  has  ever  happened. 
It  makes  one  believe  in  hell." 

"  It's  not  the  crime  itself,"  said  Roger.     "  Not 

I  j  knowing  the  criminal,  I  cannot  judge  the  crime  ; 

but  it's  the  state  of  mind  which  sickens  me.     The 

state  of  mind  which  could  prompt  such  a  thing." 

"  It's  a  common  enough  state  of  mind,"  said 
Lionel.  "  In  business  it's  common  enough.  Busi- 
ness men,  even  of  good  standing,  will  do  queer 
things  when  the  shoe  begins  to  pinch.  You  may 
say  what  you  like  about  war.  Business  is  the  real 
curse  of  a  nation.  Business,  and  the  business 
brain,  and,  oh,  my  God,  the  business  man  !  Swine. 
Fatted,  vulpine  swine." 

"  Well,"  said  Roger.  "  It  is  very  important  not 
to  take  these  things  into  the  mind,  even  to  condemn 
them." 

"  And  I  say  it  is  nothing  of  the  sort,"  said 
Lionel.  "  I  believe  in  strangling  ideas  as  I  believe 
in  strangling  people.  You  writers,  when  you  are 
really  good  at  your  job,  don't  condemn  half  enough.' 

"  Tout  comprendre,  c'est  tout  pardonner." 

"  Intellectually,  not  morally.  Come  on.  We 
are  not  going  to  argue.  We  are  going  to  work. 
We've  got  to  bury  that  bearer.  Where's  the 
spade  ? " 

They  dug  a  grave  for  Rukwo,  and  buried  him, 
and  heaped  a  cairn  of  stones  from  the  wall  on  top 

221 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

of  him.  It  was  burning  midday  when  they  had 
finished.  They  had  leisure  then  to  think  again 
of  the  loss  of  their  atoxyl. 

"  We  may  not  have  any  at  all  ?  "  said  Roger. 
Lionel  produced  a  small  screw-top  bottle  from 
his  pocket.  It  had  once  contained  tabloids  of 
anti-pyrin.  It  was  now  about  half  full  of  a  white 
powder. 

"  I've  a  few  doses  here,"  he  said.  He  looked  at 
it  carefully.  "  With  luck,"  he  said,  "  we  could 
cure  two  or  three  cases  with  this." 

"  But  suppose  you  have  a  relapse  yourself, 
Lionel  ?  You  must  keep  some,  in  case  you  should 
relapse." 

"  I  shan't  relapse,"  he  said  carelessly.  "  Relapses 
aren't  common." 

"  But  you  might.  And  you  are  more  important 
than  a  village-full  of  negroes.  More  important 
than  all  the  blacks  put  together  and  multiplied  by 
ten." 

"  I  don't  see  it.  Look  here.  I  tell  you  one 
thing  which  is  pretty  plain  to  me.  We've  got  to 
set  to  work  to  find  an  anti-toxin.  First,  though, 
we'll  go  down  and  grope  in  the  mud  for  anything 
which  may  be  left.  I  don't  give  up  hope  of  finding 
some  atoxyl  even  now." 

They  told  each  other  as  they  went  that  they 
didn't  expect  to  find  anything.  Really  their 
hearts  beat  high  with  expectation.  They  were 
sure  of  finding  what  they  sought. 

They  went  down  to  the  mud  so  sure  that  their 
disappointment  almost  unmanned  them.  For  they 
were    disappointed.     An    hour    of    broiling    work 


222 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

only  added  two  cartridges  to  their  store.  Out  in 
the  river,  caught  in  a  snag  with  other  drift,  they  saw 
a  floating  packing-case,  marked  with  a  bhie  stenciL 
By  the  manner  of  its  floating  they  judged  it  to  be 
empty,  or  nearly  empty.  It  had  probably  floated 
off  shortly  after  being  opened.  It  had  then  caught 
in  a  snag.  It  had  then  ducked  and  sidled  to  get 
away.  Lastly,  it  had  turned  upside  down  and 
emptied  its  contents  into  the  river.  So  they  judged 
the  tragedy,  viewing  the  victim  through  their 
glasses,  from  a  distance  of  a  hundred  yards. 

"  That  settles  it,  I  think,"  said  Lionel.  A  pro- 
jecting snout  rose  at  the  box,  tilting  it  over.  It 
fell  back,  lipping  under,  so  that  it  filled.  In  another 
instant  it  was  gone  from  sight.  The  glasses  shewed 
a  slight  swirl  in  the  water.  The  swirl  passed  at 
once,  under  the  drive  of  the  spate.  Their  last 
hope  of  atoxyl  was  at  an  end. 

"  Well,"  said  Roger  hopelessly.  "  It's  as  well  to 
know  the  worst.  The  box  was  empty,  don't  you 
think  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Lionel.  "  I  couldn't  be 
sure." 

"  We  might  find  some  things  in  the  water  when 
the  river  sinks  a  little  further,"  said  Roger,  without 
much  conviction.  "  It'll  be  drying  up  very  soon 
now.     Then  we  shall  find  whatever  is  in  it." 

Lionel  sat  down  despondently,  resting  his  chin 
on  one  hand.  He  was  letting  his  disappointment 
work  itself  off  silently.  His  heart  had  been  set  so 
long  on  this  first  great  medical  field-day  that  he 
could  not  look  Roger  in  the  face.  The  loss  of  the 
atoxyl  was  less  hard  to  bear  than  the  loss  of  all  the 

22.3 


MULTITUDE    AND    SOLITUDE 

interesting  cases  over  which  he  would  have  been 
bending  at  that  minute  had  this  ghastly  thing  not 
happened.  And,  being  an  old  campaigner,  and 
therefore  forethoughtful,  it  was  bitter  to  him  to 
find  himself  thwarted  unexpectedly  by  a  trick  so 
simple.  He  had  thought  that  he  had  guarded 
against  all  the  known  dodges.  He  had  been  on  his 
guard  all  through.  In  London  he  had  sampled 
the  food,  the  clothes,  the  cartridges,  rejecting 
everything  which  seemed  even  faulty.  He  had 
been  surprised  at  his  own  strictness.  All  the  way 
up  from  the  coast  he  had  watched  his  stores  so 
jealously  that  he  had  thought  himself  safe.  He  had 
been  vain  of  his  success.  He  had  never  lost  so  little 
in  any  previous  expedition.  Now  an  attack  of 
fever,  a  storm,  and  a  bearer's  sudden  death  had  let 
him  in  for  this.  He  was  not  forgetting  the  chemist's 
share.  He  cursed  himself  for  having  trusted  the 
chemist.  Then  he  decided  that  it  was  not  the 
chemist.  The  fraud  had  been  committed  in  Africa. 
He  had  not  been  careful  enough.  He  himself  was 
to  blame.  "  Guns  and  grub  I  could  understand," 
he  cried.  "  But  for  them  to  take  drugs !  Who 
would  have  thought  of  their  taking  drugs  ?  Why 
didn't  I  see  that  Africa  is  getting  civilized  ?  Roger, 
I  want  to  kill  somebody." 

"  It's  my  turn  to  lecture  now,"  said  Roger. 
"  We'll  carry  these  things  up  to  camp.  I've  an 
idea  about  camp." 

"  What  is  your  idea  ?  " 

"  To  build  a  house  out  of  the  loose  stones  of 
the  wall.  We  could  use  the  wall  itself  for  one 
wall,  build  up  three  others  and   roof   it  with  the 

224 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

tent.  It  would  be  better  than  having  another 
night  like  last  night." 

"  It  might  be  done,"  said  Lionel,  mechanically 
filling  his  pockets  with  cartridges.  "  But  I  don't 
know  what  good  we're  going  to  do  here  if  we 
haven't  any  atoxyl.  I  wish  I  knew  who  it  was. 
If  ever  I  touch  at  Kwasi  Bembo  again,  I'll  have 
that  atoxyl  out  of  his  liver." 

They  passed  a  broiling  afternoon  carrying  their 
gear  to  camp.  They  became  irritable  at  about 
four  o'clock.  After  that  time  they  worked  apart, 
avoiding  each  other.  At  six  Roger  made  tea,  over 
which  they  made  friends.  At  seven  they  set  about 
the  building  of  their  house.  They  laboured  by 
moonlight  far  into  the  night,  laying  the  mortarless 
stones  together.  When  they  knocked  off  for  bed  it 
was  nearly  midnight,  and  the  house  was  far  from 
perfect.  They  could  not  do  more  to  it.  They 
were  too  tired.  After  flogging  their  blankets 
against  the  walls  to  get  rid  of  mud  and  "  bichos," 
they  turned  in,  bone-weary,  and  slept  the  stupid 
sleep  of  sailors  for  nearly  eleven  hours. 

They  finished  their  house  in  the  afternoon. 
It  was  not  a  very  good  house,  but  they  judged 
that  it  would  be  safer  and  drier  than  their  tent 
had  proved.  After  they  had  finished  it,  they  felt 
it  to  be  structurally  weak.  They  went  at  it  again. 
They  strengthened  the  roof  with  saplings,  and 
laid  great  stones  upon  the  edges  of  the  canvas  cover, 
so  that  it  should  not  blow  from  its  place.  With 
great  cunning  Roger  arranged  an  outer  roof  of  a 
rough  thatch  which  he  himself  made  from  the 
osiers  used  by  the  natives.  He  thought  that  a 
Q  225 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

double  roof  would  be  cooler.  He  explained  to 
Lionel  an  ambitious  scheme  for  a  thatched  verandah; 
but  this  had  to  be  abandoned  from  want  of  en- 
couragement. Inside,  the  house  was  about  twelve 
feet  square.  When  the  two  beds,  the  table,  the 
chairs,  and  the  boxes  were  all  within  doors,  it 
seemed  very  cramped  and  poky.  They  were  in 
some  doubt  about  a  name  for  it.  Lionel  was  for 
"Phcenician  Villa,"  Roger  for  "The  Laurels" 
or  "  Oak  Drive."  Finally  they  decided  on  "  Por- 
tobe,"  which  they  smeared  over  the  door  in  blacking. 
They  had  not  thought  much  of  Portobe  on  their 
way  up  country.  Portobe.  Roger  going  out  that 
night,  after  supper,  to  wash  the  plates  in  a  bucket, 
sat  by  the  fire  for  many  minutes,  "  thinking  long  " 
about  Portobe.  Something  made  him  turn  his 
head,  and  look  out  into  the  night  north-north- 
westward, 

for  there  dwelt  love,  and  all  love's  loving  parts, 
And  all  the  friends. 

It  was  a  dim  expanse,  mothlike  and  silver  in  the 
moonHght,  reaching  on  in  forest  and  river  to  the 
desert.  To  reach  Portobe  he  would  have  to  go 
beyond  the  desert,  over  the  sea,  over  Spain,  over 
France.  He  paused.  He  was  not  sure  whether 
France  would  be  in  the  direct  line.  If  it  were 
not,  then  there  would  only  be  the  sea  to  cross,  past 
Land's  End,  past  Carnsore,  past  Braichy,  past  all 
the  headlands.  Then  on  to  the  Waters  of  Moyle, 
which  never  cease  to  call  to  the  heart  who  hears 
them.  He  remembered  the  poem  of  the  calHng 
of  the  Waters  of  Moyle.     He  knew  it  by  heart. 

226 


MULTITUDE    AND    SOLITUDE 

It  was  a  true  poem.  The  vastness  and  silence  of 
the  night  were  over  him.  The  great  stars  burned 
out  above.  They  seemed  to  wheel  and  deploy 
above  him,  rank  upon  rank,  helm  on  gleaming 
helm,  an  army,  a  power.  There  were  no  birds, 
,  no  noise  of  beasts,  no  lights.  Only  the  earth, 
strange  in  the  moon  ;  the  great  continent,  measure- 
less in  her  excess.  She  was  all  savage,  all  untamed,  a 
black  and  cruel  continent,  a  lustful  old  queen, 
smeared  with  bloody  oils.  She  frightened  him. 
He  thought  of  one  night  at  Portobe  three  years 
before,  when  he  had  come  out "  to  look  at  the  night  " 
with  OttaHe.  He  could  still  see  some  of  the  stars 
seen  then.  He  could  still,  in  the  sharpened  fancy 
of  the  home-sick,  smell  the  spray  of  honeysuckle 
which  had  gone  trailing  and  traihng,  drenching 
wet,  across  the  Httle-used  iron  gate  which  led  to 
the  beach.  He  longed  to  be  going  up  the  beach, 
up  the  loaning  overhung  with  old  willows,  as  he 
had  gone  that  night  with  OttaHe.  He  longed  to 
be  going  through  the  Httle  town,  past  the  fruit- 
man's,  past  the  butcher's,  past  the  R.I.C.  barracks, 
to  the  little  churchyard  by  the  stream.  OttaHe 
lay  there.  Here  he  was  in  Africa,  trying  to  do 
something  for  OttaHe's  sake.  He  drew  in  his 
breath  sharply.  It  was  aH  useless.  It  was  not 
going  to  be  done.  The  atoxyl  was  lost.  They 
might  just  as  weU  have  stayed  in  England. 
He  sighed.  To  do  something  very  difficult,  which 
would  tax  all  his  powers,  that  was  his  task.  When 
that  was  done  he  would  feel  that  he  had  won  his 
bride.  A  strange,  choking  voice  came  from  the 
house. 

227 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

"  Roger  !  Roger  !  Come  in.  Where  are  you  ?  " 
Lionel  had  been  asleep  in  his  chair. 

"  What  is  it  ?     What  is  it  ?  "  said  Roger. 

"  Nothing.  Nothing,"  said  Lionel.  "  I  dreamed 
I  was  fast  by  the  leg.  You  don't  know  how  beastly 
it  was." 


228 


X 

A  cold  shivering,  metliinks. 

Every  cyWan  out  of  his  Humour. 

What  would  you  minister  upon  the  sudden  ? 

d^onsieur  Thomas. 

THE  next  day  they  walked  to  the  village,  pre- 
pared for  an  unpleasant  morning.  They 
buried  seven  bodies  and  burned  eleven  huts. 
Several  times,  during  the  day,  they  noticed  tsetses 
at  rest  on  the  framework  of  the  huts. 

"  They  have  followed  people  up  from  the  water," 
said  Lionel.  "  They  don't  attack  us,  because  we  are 
wearing  white  duck.     They  don't  like  white."  . 

"  Flies  have  an  uncanny  knowledge,"  said  Roger. 
"  How  do  they  get  their  knowledge  ?  Is  it  mere 
inherited  instinct  ?  I  notice  that  they  always  attack 
in  the  least  protected  spots.  How  do  they  know 
that  a  man  cannot  easily  drive  them  from  between 
his  shoulders  ?  They  do  know.  I  notice  they 
nearly  always  attack  between  the  shoulders." 

"  Yes.  And  dogs  on  the  head,  cattle  on  the 
shoulders,  and  horses  on  the  belly  and  forelegs. 
They're  subtle  little  devils." 

"  And  they  have  apparently  no  place  in  the  scheme 
of  the  world,  except  to  transplant  the  trypanosome 
from  where  he  is  harmless  to  where  he  is  deadly." 

"  Lots  of  men  are  like  that,"  said  Lionel.  "  You 
can  go  along  any  London  street  and  see  thousands 
of  them  outside  those  disgusting  pot-houses.    Men 

229 


MUL7HUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

with  no  place  in  the  scheme  o£  the  world,  except  to 
transplant  intoxicants  from  the  casks,  where  they 
are  harmless,  to  their  insides,  where  they  become 
deadly,  both  to  themselves  and  to  society.  Any 
self-respecting  State  would  drown  the  brutes  in 
their  own  beer.  Yet  the  brutes  don't  get  drowned. 
And  as  they  do  not,  there  must  be  a  scientific 
reason.  Either  the  State  must  be  so  rotten  that 
the  germs  are  neutraHzed  by  other  germs,  or  the 
germs  must  have  some  dim  sort  of  efficiency  for  life, 
just  as  the  tsetses  have.  They  have  the  tenacity  of 
the  very  low  organism.  It  is  one  of  the  mysteries 
of  hfe  to  me  that  a  man  tends  to  lose  that  tenacity 
and  efficiency  for  life  as  soon  as  he  becomes  suffi- 
ciently subtle  and  fine  to  be  really  worth  having  in 
the  world.  I  like  Shakespeare  because  he  is  one  of 
the  very  few  men  who  reahzed  that.  He  is  harping 
on  it  again  and  again.  He  is  at  it  in  Hamlet,  in 
Richard  the  Second,  in  Brutus,  Othello.  Oh,  in  lots 
of  the  plays,  in  the  minor  characters,  too,  like 
Malvolio  ;  even  in  Aguecheek.  And  people  call 
that  disgusting,  beefy  brute.  Prince  Henry,  '  Shake- 
speare's one  hero,'  a  '  vision  of  ideal  English  man- 
hood.' Shakespeare's  one  hero  !  Shakespeare  wrote 
him  with  his  tongue  in  his  cheek,  and  used  an  ounce 
of  civet  afterwards." 

They  turned  again  to  their  work.  After  chang- 
ing their  clothes,  bathing  antiseptically,  and  anoint- 
ing their  hands  with  corrosive  subUmate  solution 
and  alcohol,  they  began  solemnly  to  distil  some 
water  for  their  tiny  store  of  atoxyl. 

"  Lionel,"  said  Roger,  "  we've  got  enough  drug 
to  cure  two,  or  perhaps  three  of  these  people.    We 

230 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

ought  not  to  use  it  all.  We  are  away  in  the  wilds 
here.  Save  one  dose  at  least  for  yourself  in  case 
you  should  get  a  relapse.  You  know  how  very 
virulent  a  relapsed  case  is." 

"  I  know,"  said  Lionel.  "  But  that  is  part  of  the 
day's  work.  Our  only  chance  of  doing  good  here  is 
to  find  an  anti-toxin.  I  want  this  spare  atoxyl 
for  that." 

"  But,"  said  Roger,  "  you  cannot  make  an  effec- 
tive serum  from  the  blood  of  a  man  in  whom 
atoxyl  is  at  work.  Surely  atoxyl  only  stimulates  the 
phagocytes  to  eat  the  trypanosome." 

"  Quite  so,"  said  Lionel.  "  You're  a  serumite, 
I'm  not.  I  am  not  at  all  keen  on  the  use  of  serum 
for  this  complaint.  I  believe  that  the  cure  (if  there 
is  one)  will  be  got  by  injecting  the  patient  with  dead 
trypanosomes  or  very,  very  weak  ones.  I'm  going  to 
make  a  special  artificial  culture  of  trypanosomes  in 
culture  tubes.  I  shall  then  weaken  the  germs  with 
atoxyl.  When  they  are  all  bloated  and  paralysed,  I 
shall  inject  them.  I  believe  that  that  injection,  or 
the  injection  of  quite  dead  trypanosomes,  will  have 
permanent  good  effects." 

"  And  I,"  rejoined  Roger,  "  believe  that  your 
methods  will  be  useless.  I  believe  that  the  cure  (if 
there  be  a  cure)  will  be  obtained  by  the  use  of  sera 
obtained  from  naturally  or  artificially  immunized 
animals." 

"  That's  just  the  taking  kind  of  fairy  story  you 
would  believe.    You're  a  sentimentalist." 

"  Very  well.  But  listen.  It  is  said  that  when 
the  dogs  of  the  bushmen  are  reared  entirely  on  the 
meat  of  immune  game,  they  become  immune  like 

231 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 


the  game  ;  but  that  if  they  are  not  used  to  wild 
meat  they  develop  nagana  from  eating  it  casually." 

"  I  don't  beheve  the  first  part  of  that,"  said 
Lionel.  "  It  sounds  too  like  a  yarn.  The  dogs 
which  are  reared  entirely  on  wild  game  are  probably 
naturally  immune  native  dogs,  bred  originally  from 
some  wild  strain,  like  the  wild  hunting-dogs." 

"  But  there  is  no  doubt  that  wild  game,  like 
wildebeests,  koodoos,  hyenas,  and  quaggas,  are 
immune  ?  " 

"  None  whatever." 

"  Then  could  not  some  preparation  be  made 
from  the  blood  of  the  wild  game  ?  Surely  one 
could  extract  the  immunizing  principle  from  the 
immune  creature,  and  use  that  as  a  serum  ?  " 

"  We  don't  even  know  what  the  '  immunizing 
principle  '  may  be  :   so  how  can  we  extract  it  ?  " 

"  Well,  then.    Use  the  blood  serum  by  itself." 

"  But,  my  dear  man,  the  blood  of  these  beasts  is 
the  favourite  haunt  of  the  trypanosome." 

They  argued  it  to  and  fro  with  the  pertinacity  of 
enthusiasts  improperly  equipped  with  knowledge. 
Roger  fought  for  his  "  fairy  story,"  Lionel  for  his 
dead  and  dying  cultures.  At  last  Lionel  finished 
the  preparation  of  the  mixture. 

"  Look  here,"  he  said.  "  This  atoxyl,  you  say, 
is  to  be  kept  ?  Well.  If  I  get  a  relapse  before  it  is 
used,  you  will  please  remember  that  it  is  to  be  used 
to  paralyse  artificially-raised  trypanosomes,  which 
will  afterwards  be  injected  into  me.  You  will  try 
none  of  your  sera  on  me,  my  friend.  If  you  like  to 
go  getting  sera  from  dying,  dirty,  anthraxy  wild 
beasts,  do  so  ;    but  don't  put  any  of  the  poison,  so 

232 


MULTITUDE    AND    SOLITUDE 

got,  into  me.  I  see  you  so  plainly  strangling  a  deer 
in  a  mud-wallow,  and  drawing  off  the  blood  into  a 
methylated  spirits  can.  Here's  the  mixture  ready. 
And  now  that  our  water  of  life  is  ready  for  use, 
comes  the  great  question :  Which  of  all  these 
sleepers  is  to  live  ?  Here  are  twenty-nine  men, 
women,  and  children.  They  are  all  condemned  to 
die  within  a  few  weeks.  Now  then,  Roger.  You 
are  a  writer,  that  is  to  say  a  law-giver,  a  disposer 
and  settler  of  moral  issues.  Which  of  these  is  to 
live  ?  We  can  say  thumbs  down  to  any  we  choose. 
If  we  live  to  be  a  hundred  we  shall  probably  never 
have  to  make  such  a  solemn  choice  again." 

"  It  isn't  certain  life,"  said  Roger,  hesitating  for 
a  moment,  staggered  by  the  responsibiHty.  "Atoxyl 
isn't  a  certain  cure,  even  of  moderate  cases." 

"  It's  a  practically  certain  cure  if  the  patient  is 
all  right  in  other  ways  ;  that  is,  of  course,  if  the 
case  has  not  gone  too  far." 

"  What  is  the  percentage  of  deaths  ?  "  said 
Roger. 

"  With  atoxyl  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Eight  per  cent  for  slight  cases,  and  twenty-two 
per  cent  for  bad  ones.  Without  atoxyl,  it's  a 
certain  hundred  per  cent." 

"  I  see." 

"  It's  a  good  drug." 

"  Yes,"  said  Roger.  "  It's  a  good  drug.  But 
look  at  them,  Lionel.  To  stand  here  and  choose 
them  out." 

"  We  are  doing  now  what  the  scientist  will 
one  day  do  for  every  human  race,"  said  Lionel. 


MULTHUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

"  We  are  choosing  for  the  future.  As  it  happens 
we  are  choosing  for  the  future  of  a  fraction  of  a 
wretched  Httle  African  tribe.  The  scientist  will 
one  day  choose,  just  as  finally,  for  the  future  of 
man.  I  didn't  think  you'd  baulk,  Roger.  This  is 
the  beginning  of  the  golden  age.  '  The  golden  age 
begins  anew.'  Here  are  the  wise  men  choosing 
who  are  to  inherit  the  earth." 

A  sleepy  negro  came  unsteadily  from  a  hut.  He 
walked,  as  though  not  quite  in  control  of  his  actions, 
towards  the  wise  men.  He  was  a  fine,  supple 
creature,  dressed  in  crocodile's  teeth.  Parts  of  him 
shone  with  an  anointment  of  oil.  He  drew  up, 
dully  staring.  His  jaw  was  hanging.  Flies  settled 
on  his  body.  A  tsetse  with  fierce,  dancing  flight, 
flew  round  him,  and  settled  on  his  shoulders.  He 
stood  vacantly,  gazing  at  the  wise  men.  His  mind 
could  not  be  sure  of  anything ;  but  there  was 
something  which  he  wanted  to  say  :  something 
which  had  to  be  said.  He  waited,  vacantly,  for  the 
message  to  come  back  to  him,  and  then  drove 
slowly  forward  again,  and  again  stopped.  His  lips 
mumbled  something.  His  eyes  drooped.  One 
trembling  hand  weakly  groped  in  the  air  for  support. 
It  rested  on  a  hut.  He  slowly  and  very  wearily 
collapsed  upon  the  hut,  and  sat  down.  His  head 
nodded  and  nodded.  Another  tsetse  flew  down. 
Roger  noticed  that  the  man  was  cicatrized  about 
the  body  with  old  scars.  He  had  been  a  warrior. 
He  had  lived  the  savage  life  to  the  full.  He  had 
killed.  He  had  rushed  screaming  to  death,  under 
his  tossing  Colobus  plumes,  first  of  his  tribe  to  stab, 
before  the  shields  rattled  on  each  other.     He  had 

234 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

been  lithe,  swift,  and  bloody  as  the  panther. 
Now  he  was  this  trembling,  fumbling  thing,  a  log, 
a  driveller,  a  perch  for  flies. 

"  Lionel,"  said  Roger,  "  it  will  be  awful  if  we 
lose  our  cases." 

"  Why  ?    They  will  die  in  any  case." 

"  But  after  choosing  them  like  this.  If  we  give 
them  their  chance,  and  they  lose  the  chance.  I 
should  feel  that  perhaps  one  of  the  others  might 
have  lived." 

"  We  shall  choose  carefully.  We  can  do  no  more 
than  that.  There's  that  hideous  old  crone  coming 
out  again.  Poor  old  thing.  I  dare  say  she  has  seen 
more  of  the  world  than  either  of  us.  She  may  be  a 
king's  wife  and  the  mother  of  kings.  How  merciless 
these  savages  are  to  the  old !  " 

"  They're  like  children.  Children  have  no 
mercy  on  the  old." 

"  I  wonder  what  good  life  is  to  her  ?  " 

"  I  dare  say  she  remembers  the  good  days.  She 
can't  feel  very  much." 

"  No,"  said  Lionel.  "  But  I  notice  that  old 
people  feel  intensely.  They  don't  feel  much.  They 
may  feel  only  one  single  thing  in  all  the  world  ; 
but  they  feel  about  that  with  all  their  strength. 
It's  perfectly  ghastly  how  they  feel.  We  are  all 
islands  apart.  We  do  not  know  each  other.  We 
cannot  know  that  woman's  mind,  nor  have  we  any 
data  by  which  we  can  imagine  it.  That  old  animal 
may  be  like  Blake's  bird  :  '  A  whole  world  of  delight 
closed  to  your  senses  five.'  " 

"  Very  well.  Would  you  cure  her  ?  She's  not 
infected  as  it  happens ;  but  would  you,  if  she  were  ?" 

235 


MULTHUDE    AND    SOLITUDE 

"  No.  She  has  had  her  Hfe.  I  wonder,  by  the 
way,  if  extreme  old  age  is  immune  from  sleeping 
sickness.  I  dare  say  it  is.  But  old  age  is  not  common 
in  savage  societies.  I  wish  I  knew  that  old  woman's 
story.  She  has  seen  a  lot,  Roger.  That  is  a  wonder- 
ful face.  Now  we  must  choose.  Shall  we  choose  a 
woman  ?  " 

"  No.  Not  a  woman.  We  must  think  of  the 
creature's  future.  What  would  become  of  a 
woman  left  alone  here  ?  Even  if  she  followed  up 
her  tribe,  they  would  probably  not  admit  her. 
You  know  that  these  people  do  not  believe  in  the 
possibility  of  a  cure  for  sleeping  sickness.  They 
would  only  drive  her  out,  or  kill  her." 

"  Yes,  or  let  her  drift  among  white  men.  No. 
Not  a  woman.  Not  an  old  man,  I  say.  The  old 
have  had  their  lives.  Besides,  the  life  of  an  old 
savage  is  generally  wretched.  There  would  be 
nothing  for  him  to  do,  either  here  or  anywhere 
else.    So  we  won't  have  an  old  man." 

'"  Nor  a  warrior,"  said  Roger. 

"  I'm  not  sure  about  a  warrior,"  said  Lionel. 
"  He  would  be  able  to  fend  for  himself.  He  would 
be  worth  taking  in  by  some  other  tribe  short  of 
males.    There  are  points  to  the  warrior." 

"  He  would  probably  rise  up  one  night  and  jab 
us  with  a  shovel-headed  spear." 

"  And  then  we  should  shoot  him.  Yes,  that 
might  happen.    That  narrows  it  down  to  the  boys." 

They  looked  at  the  boys,  noting  their  teeth, 
skulls,  and  physiognomies.  Several  shewed  signs  of 
congenital  malignant  disease  ;  others  were  brutish 
and  loutish  looking  ;    but  they  were,  on  the  whole, 

236 


MULTITUDE    AND    SOLITUDE 

/a  much  nicer-looking  lot  than  the  boys  who  sell 
papers  in  London.  They  narrowed  the  choice  to 
four.  One  of  them  shewed  signs  of  pneumonia. 
He  was  rejected.  The  others  were  examined  care- 
fully. Their  prefrontal  areas  were  measured.  They 
were  sounded  and  felt  and  summed  up.  The 
matter  was  doubtful  for  a  time.  The  lad  with  the 
best  head  was  more  drowsy  than  the  other  two. 
The  question  arose,  should  the  doubtful  cure  of  a 
genius  be  preferred  to  the  less  doubtful  cure  of  a 
dunce.  "  Nature  has  made  an  effort  for  this  one," 
said  Lionel,  "  at  the  expense  of  the  type.  This 
fellow  has  got  a  better  head  than  the  others,  but 
he  is  not  quite  so  fine  a  specimen.  That  means 
that  he  will  be  less  happy.  Nature  would  probably 
prefer  the  other  fellows." 

"  We  have  nothing  to  do  with  Nature,"  said 
Roger.  "  We  are  out  to  fight  her  wherever  we  can 
find  her.  Nature  is  a  collection  of  vegetables, 
many  of  them  human.  Let  us  thwart  her.  Nature's 
mind  is  the  mind  of  the  flock  of  sheep.  Nature's 
order  is  the  order  of  the  primeval  swamp.  Never 
mind  what  she  would  prefer.  Sacrifice  both  the 
dunces,  and  let  the  other  have  a  double  chance. 
I  know  the  dunce-mind,  or  '  natural '  mind,  only 
too  well.  It  would  sacrifice  any  original  mind, 
and  brutally,  like  the  beast  it  is,  rather  than  see 
its  doltish  sheep-pen  rules  infringed." 

"  Genius  is  excess,"  said  Lionel.  "  Genius  in  a 
savage  means  an  excess  of  savagery.  This  fellow 
may  be  a  most  turbulent,  bloodthirsty  ruffian. 
The  others,  though  they  will  probably  be  blood- 
thirsty ruffians,  may  not  be  so  turbulent." 

237 


MULTITUDE    AND    SOLITUDE 

*'  If  he  be  turbulent,"  said  Roger,  "  it  will  be  in 
a  more  intellectual  manner  than  is  usual  with  his 
tribe.  Turbulence  in  a  savage  is  a  sign  of  life.  It 
is  only  in  a  civilized  man  that  it  is  a  sign  of  failure." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Lionel.  "  We  will  have  the 
genius.  He  may  disappoint  us.  I  think  he  is  the 
best  type  here.  Who  is  to  be  the  other  ?  What  do 
you  say  to  that  nice-looking  boy,  whom  we  spun 
some  time  ago  for  itch  ?  I  like  that  lad's  face." 
You  think  he  would  be  a  good  one  to  save  ?  " 
Well,  itch  apart,  he  looked  a  nice  lad.  He 
would  be  exceptional,  socially,  just  as  the  other 
would  be  exceptional  intellectually.  He  would  be 
to  some  extent  unnatural,  which  is  what  you  seem 
to  want.    Why  are  you  so  down  on  the  natural  ?  " 

"  I've  heard  some  old  women  of  both  sexes 
praising  the  natural,  ever  since  I  was  a  child.  The 
natural.  The  born  natural.  The  undeveloped 
sheep  in  us,  which  makes  common  head  to  butt  the 
wolf-scarer." 

"  We'll  give  them  a  dose  to-day  and  a  dose  to- 
morrow, and  a  last  dose  in  two  and  a  half  weeks' 
time,"  said  Lionel.  "  And  then  they'll  either  be  fit 
to  butt  anything  in  the  wide  world,  or  they'll  be  on 
their  way  to  Marumba." 

"  The  genius  first,"  said  Roger,  bringing  up  the 
patient.  The  needle  was  sterihzed.  A  little  prick 
between  the  shoulderblades  drove  the  dose  home. 
The  other  boy  followed.  Lionel  eyed  them  care- 
fully. 

"  They  must  come  out  of  here,  now,"  he  said. 
"  They  must  live  with  us  for  to-night.  We  can't 
do  more  now.     We've  done  enough  for  one  day. 

238 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

To-morrow  we  must  rig  them  up  a  shanty  up  on 
the  hill.  They'll  be  pretty  well  by  to-morrow 
night." 

They  were  doing  finely  by  the  next  night,  as 
Lionel  had  foretold.  Their  second  dose  was 
followed  up  with  a  preparation  of  mercury,  which 
the  wise  men  trusted  to  complete  the  cure.  The 
patients  were  pretty  well.  But  the  work  and 
excitement  of  settling  them  into  quarters  near 
"  Portobe  "  made  the  doctors  very  far  from  pretty 
well.  Though  the  sick-quarters  were  little  more 
than  a  roofed-in  wind-screen  of  tarpaulin,  the 
strain  of  making  it  was  too  much  for  two  over- 
wrought Europeans,  not  yet  used  to  the  heat. 
Lionel,  complaining  peevishly  of  headache,  knocked 
off  work  before  tea.  Roger,  feeling  the  boisterous 
good  spirits  which  so  often  precede  a  fit  of  recurrent 
fever,  helped  Lionel  into  bed,  and  cheerfully  did 
the  sick  man's  share  of  building.  After  this  he  gave 
the  two  patients  their  supper  of  biscuit  and  bully 
beef  (which  they  ate  with  very  good  appetites), 
and,  when  they  had  eaten,  put  them  to  bed  under 
their  wind-screen.  As  he  worked,  he  hoped  fer- 
vently that  Lionel  was  not  going  to  be  ill  again. 
He  had  been  peevish,  with  a  slight,  irritable  fever 
all  the  way  up  the  river  from  Malakoto.  If  he  fell 
ill  again  now,  all  the  work  would  be  delayed. 
Roger  wanted  to  get  to  work.  All  their  plans  had 
been  upset  by  the  bearers'  desertion.  Any  further 
upsetting  of  plans  might  ruin  the  expedition.  The 
days  were  passing.  Every  day  brought  those  poor 
drowsy  devils  in  the  village  nearer  to  their  deaths. 
Soon  they  would  be  too  ill  to  cure.     He  wanted 

239 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

Lionel  well  and  strong,  working  beside  him  towards 
the  discovery  of  a  serum.  That  was  the  crying 
need.  With  Lionel  ill,  he  could  do  nothing,  or 
nearly  nothing.  He  had  so  little  scientific  know- 
ledge. And  besides  that,  he  would  have  Lionel  to 
watch,  and  the  cleansing  and  feeding  of  all  those 
twenty-seven  sick.  He  did  not  see  how  things  were 
going  to  get  done. 

He  told  himself  that  things  would  have  to  get 
done,  and  that  he  would  have  to  do  them.  The 
resolution  cheered  him,  but  the  prospect  was  not 
made  brighter  by  his  discovery  soon  afterwards  that 
Lionel's  temperature  had  shot  up  with  a  sudden 
leaping  bound  to  103°.  That  frightened  him. 
Lionel  was  not  going  to  be  ill,  he  was  ill,  and  very 
dangerously  ill  already.  His  temperature  had 
risen  four  or  five  degrees  in  about  half  an  hour. 
The  discovery  gave  Roger  a  momentary  feeling  of 
panic.  With  a  fever  like  that,  Lionel  might  die, 
and  if  Lionel  died,  what  then  ?  He  would  be  there 
alone,  alone  in  the  wilds,  with  drowsed,  half-dead 
savages.  He  would  be  alone  there  with  death,  in 
the  heart  of  a  continent.  He  would  go  mad  there, 
at  the  sight  of  his  own  shadow,  like  the  Australian 
in  the  cheerful  story.  But  for  Lionel  to  die,  to  lose 
Lionel,  the  friend  of  all  these  days,  the  comrade  of 
all  these  adventures,  that  was  the  desolating 
thought.  It  would  not  matter  much  what  happened 
to  himself  if  Lionel  were  to  die. 

It  was  borne  in  upon  him  that  Lionel's  life  would 
depend  on  his  exertions.  He  would  be  doctor, 
nurse,  and  chemist.  Let  him  look  to  it.  On  the 
morrow,   perhaps,    there   would    be    two   vigorous 

240 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

natives  to  look  to  the  sick  in  the  village.  Mean- 
while, there  was  the  night  to  win  through  ;  and 
that  burning  temperature  to  lower. 

He  managed  to  administer  a  dose  of  quinine. 
There  was  nothing  more  that  he  could  do.  Crouch- 
ing down  by  the  sick  man's  side  made  him  feel 
queer.  He  remembered  that  he  had  left  neither 
food  nor  water  in  the  patients'  hut.  They  ought 
to  have  food  by  them  in  case  they  woke  hungry, 
as  they  probably  would,  after  their  long,  irregular 
fast.  He  carried  them  some  biscuit,  and  a  bucket 
half  full  of  water.  They  were  sleeping  heavily. 
Nature  was  resting  in  them.  While  coming  back 
from  the  hut,  he  noticed  that  the  night  struck  cold. 
He  shivered.  His  teeth  began  to  chatter.  He  felt 
that  the  cold  had  stricken  to  his  liver.  He  wished 
that  he  had  not  gone  out.  Coming  into  the  house, 
he  felt  the  need  of  a  fire  ;  but  he  did  not  dare  to 
light  one,  on  account  of  Lionel.  Lionel  lay  tossing 
deliriously,  babbling  the  halves  of  words.  Roger 
gave  him  more  quinine,  and  took  a  strong  dose 
himself.  There  was  something  very  strange  about 
the  quinine.  It  seemed  to  come  to  his  mouth  from 
a  hand  immensely  distant.  There  was  a  long, 
long  arm,  like  a  crooked  railway,  tied  to  the  hand. 
It  seemed  to  Roger  that  it  could  not  possibly  crook 
itself  sufficiently  to  let  the  hand  reach  his  mouth. 
After  the  strangeness  of  the  hand  had  faded,  he 
felt  horribly  cold.  He  longed  to  have  fire  all  round 
him,  and  inside  him.  He  regarded  Lionel  stupidly. 
He  could  do  nothing  more.  He  would  lie  down. 
If  Lionel  wanted  anything,  he  would  get  up  to 
fetch  it.    He  could  not  sit  up  with  Lionel.    He  was 

R  241 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

in  for  a  fever.  He  got  into  his  bed,  and  heaped  the 
blankets  round  him,  trembling.  Almost  at  once 
the  real  world  began  to  blur  and  change.  It  was 
still  the  real  world,  but  he  was  seeing  much  in  it 
which  he  had  not  suspected.  Many  queer  things 
v/ere  happening  before  his  eyes.  He  lay  shudder- 
ing, with  chattering  teeth,  listening,  as  he  thought, 
to  the  noise  made  by  the  world  as  it  revolved.  It 
was  a  crashing,  booming,  resolute  noise,  which 
droned  down  and  anon  piped  up  high.  It  went  on 
and  on. 

In  the  middle  of  all  the  noise  he  had  the  strange 
fancy  that  his  body  was  not  in  bed  at  all,  but  poised 
in  air.  His  bed  lay  somewhere  below  him.  Sitting 
up  he  could  see  part  of  it,  infinitely  distant,  below 
his  outstretched  feet.  The  ceiling  was  swelling 
and  swelling  just  above  him.  It  seemed  as  vast  as 
heaven.  All  the  time  it  swelled  he  seemed  to 
shrink.  He  was  lying  chained  somewhere,  while 
his  body  was  shrinking  to  the  vanishing  point.  He 
could  feel  himself  dwindling,  while  the  blackness 
above  grew  vaster.  He  heard  something  far  below 
him — or  was  it  at  his  side  ? — something  or  somebody 
speaking  very  rapidly.  He  tried  to  call  out  to 
Lionel,  but  all  that  he  could  say  was  something 
about  an  oyster  tree.  There  was  a  great  deal  of 
chattering.  Somebody  was  trying  to  get  in,  or 
somebody  was  trying  to  get  out.  Something  or 
somebody  was  in  great  danger,  and,  do  what  he 
could,  he  could  not  help  growing  smaller,  smaller, 
smaller.  At  last  the  blackness  fell  in  upon  his 
littleness  and  blotted  it  out. 

He  awoke  in  the  early  morning,  feeling  as  though 

242 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

his  bones  had  been  taken  out.  His  mouth  had  a 
taste  as  though  brown  paper  had  been  burnt  in  it. 
Wafts  of  foul  smell  passed  over  him  as  each  fresh 
gust  blew  in  at  the  doorway.  Something  was  the 
matter  with  his  eyes.  He  had  an  obscurity  of 
vision.  He  could  not  see  properly.  Things  changed 
and  merged  into  each  other.  He  lifted  a  hand  to 
brush  away  the  distorting  film.  He  was  thirsty. 
He  was  too  weak  to  define  more  clearly  what  he 
wanted  ;  it  was  not  water  ;  it  was  not  food  ;  it 
was  not  odour  ;  but  a  bitter,  pungent,  astringent 
something  which  would  be  all  three  to  him.  He 
wanted  something  which  would  cleanse  his  mouth, 
supplant  this  foulness  in  his  nostrils,  and  nerve 
the  jelly  of  his  marrow.  Weakly  desiring  this 
potion,  he  fell  asleep  from  exhaustion.  He 
woke  much  refreshed  after  a  sleep  of  about  eight 
hours. 

When  he  looked  about  him,  he  saw  that  Lionel 
was  still  unconscious.  He  was  lying  there  uneasily, 
muttering  and  restless,  with  a  much-flushed  face. 
His  hands  were  plucking  and  scratching  at  his  chest. 
There  was  that  about  him  which  suggested  high 
fever.  Roger  hurriedly  brought  a  thermometer 
and  took  the  sick  man's  temperature.  It  had  sunk 
to  less  than  loo°.  He  thrust  aside  the  pyjama  coat, 
and  felt  the  heart  with  his  finger.  The  pulse  was 
beating  with  something  of  the  batting  motion  of 
a  guttering  electric  light.  The  chest  was  inflamed, 
with  a  slight  reddish  rash. 

Roger  sat  down  upon  his  bed  and  took  a  few 
deep  breaths  to  steady  himself.  Afterwards  he 
remembered  telling  himself  in  a  loud,  clear  voice 

243 


MULTITUDE    AND    SOLITUDE 

that  he  would  have  to  go  into  this  with  a  clear  head, 
a  very  clear  head.  He  swilled  his  head  with  water 
from  the  bucket.  When  he  felt  competent  he 
remembered  another  and  more  certain  symptom. 
He  advanced  to  the  sick  man  and  looked  anxiously 
at  his  throat  glands.  He  had  braced  himself  for 
the  shock  ;  but  it  was  none  the  less  severe  when  it 
came.  The  glands  were  visibly  swollen.  They 
were  also  very  tender  to  the  touch.  Lionel  had 
relapsed.  He  was  suffering  from  trypanosomiasis. 
The  disease  was  on  him. 

Roger  passed  the  next  few  minutes  biting  his 
lips.  From  time  to  time  he  went  back  to  the  bed 
to  look  at  the  well-known  symptoms.  He  was  sure, 
only  too  sure,  but  each  time  he  went  he  prayed  to 
God  that  he  might  be  mistaken.  He  went  over 
these  symptoms  in  his  mind.  High  temperature, 
a  rapid  pulse,  the  glands  of  the  neck  swollen,  a  rash 
on  the  chest,  hands,  or  shoulders,  a  flushed  face, 
and  feeble  movements.  There  was  no  doubt- 
ing the  symptoms.  Lionel  was  in  a  severe 
relapse. 

Even  when  one  is  certain  of  something  terrible, 
there  is  still  a  clinging  to  hope,  a  sense  of  the 
possibiHty  of  hope.  Roger  sitting  there  on  the 
bed,  staring  at  the  restless  body,  had  still  a  hope 
that  he  might  be  wrong.  He  dressed  himself  care- 
fully, saying  over  and  over  again  that  he  must  keep 
a  level  head.  There  was  still  one  test  to  apply.  It 
was  necessary  to  be  certain.  He  got  out  the  micro- 
scope, and  sterilized  a  needle.  When  he  was  ready 
he  punctured  one  of  Lionel's  glands,  and  blew  out 
the  matter  on  to  a  slide.     Very  anxiously,  after 

244 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

preparing  the  slide  for  observation,  he  focussed  the 
lens,  and  looked  down  onto  the  new,  unsuspected 
world,  bustling  below  him  on  the  glass. 

He  was  looking  down  on  a  strange  world  o£  discs, 
among  which  httle  wriggling  wavy  membranes, 
something  like  the  tails  o£  tadpoles,  waved  them- 
selves slowly,  and  lashed  out  with  a  sort  of  whip- 
lash snout.  Each  had  a  dark  little  nucleus  in  his 
middle,  and  a  minute  spot  near  the  anterior  end. 
There  was  no  room  for  hope  in  Roger's  mind  when 
he  saw  those  Httle  waving  membranes,  bustling 
actively,  splitting,  multiplying,  lashing  with  their 
whips.  They  were  trypanosomes  in  high  activity. 
He  watched  them  for  a  minute  or  two  horrified  by 
the  bluntness  and  lowness  of  the  organism,  and  by 
its  blind  power.  It  was  a  trembling  membrane  a 
thousandth  part  of  an  inch  long.  It  had  brought 
Lionel  down  to  that  restless  body  on  the  bed.  It 
had  reduced  all  Lionel's  knowledge  and  charm 
and  skill  to  a  Httle  plucking  at  the  skin,  a  Httle 
tossing,  a  Httle  babbHng.  It  was  the  visible 
pestilence,  the  living  seed  of  death,  sown  in  the 
blood. 

Roger  made  himself  some  tea.  Having  made  it, 
he  forced  himself  to  eat,  repeating  that  he  must 
eat  to  keep  strong,  lest  he  should  fail  Lionel  in  any 
way.  Food,  and  the  hot  diffusive  stimulant,  made 
him  more  cheerful.  He  told  himself  that  Lionel 
was  only  in  a  fit  of  the  frequently  recurring  trypano- 
some  fever.  After  a  day  or  two  of  fever  he  would 
come  to  again,  weak,  anaemic,  and  complaining  of 
headache.  A  dose  of  atoxyl  would  destroy  ah  the 
symptoms  in  a  few  hours.    Even  if  he  did  not  take 

245 


MULTHUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

the  atoxyl,  there  was  no  certainty  that  the  fever 
would  turn  to  sleeping  sickness.  There  was  a 
chance  o£  it ;  but  no  certainty.  A  doctor's  first 
duty  was  to  be  confident.  Well,  he  was  going  to  be 
confident.  He  was  going  to  pull  Lionel  through. 
He  remembered  a  conversation  between  two  Ameri- 
cans in  a  railway  carriage.  He  had  overheard  them 
years  before,  while  travelling  south  from  Fleet- 
wood. They  were  talking  of  a  coming  prize-fight 
between  two  notorious  boxers  who,  while  training, 
spent  much  energy  in  contemning  each  other  in 
the  Press,  threatening  each  other  with  annihilation, 
of  the  most  final  kind.  "  Them  suckers  chew  the 
rag  fit  to  beat  the  band,"  said  one  of  the  men. 
"  Why  cain't  they  give  it  a  rest  ?  Let  'em  slug 
each  other  good,  in  der  scrap.  De  hell  wid  dis  chin 
music." 

"  Aw  git  off,"  said  the  other.  "  Them  quitters, 
if  they  didn't  talk  hot  air  till  dey  believed  it,  dey'd 
never  git  near  der  ring." 

He  had  always  treasured  the  conversation  in  his 
memory.  He  thought  of  it  now.  Perhaps  if 
doctors  did  not  force  themselves  "  to  talk  hot  air  " 
till  their  patients  believed  it,  very  few  patients 
would  ever  leave  their  beds.  He  cleared  away  the 
breakfast  things  and  made  the  house  tidy.  He  gave 
Lionel  an  extra  pillow.  Then  he  went  out  into  the 
morning  to  think  of  what  he  should  do. 

When  he  got  out  into  the  air  he  remembered 
the  two  patients.  It  was  his  duty  now  to  dose  them 
and  give  them  food.  All  that  he  had  to  do  was  to 
walk  to  their  hut,  see  that  they  ate  their  breakfast, 
and  give  them  each  a  blue  pill  afterwards.     The 

246 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

drug  would  have  taken  a  stronger  hold  during  the 
night,  and  the  action  of  atoxyl  is  magical  even  in 
bad  cases.  He  expected  to  find  them  alert  and 
lively,  changed  by  the  drug's  magic  to  two  intelli- 
gent merry  negroes.  It  was  not  too  much  to  hope, 
perhaps.  He  prayed  that  it  might  be  so.  There 
was  nothing  for  which  he  longed  so  much  as  for 
some  strong  evidence  of  the  power  of  atoxyl  to 
arrest  the  disease.  He  topped  the  rise  and  looked 
down  on  his  handiwork. 

All  was  quiet  in  the  clumsy  hut.  The  negroes 
were  not  stirring.  Roger  was  vaguely  perplexed 
when  he  saw  that  they  were  not  about.  Even  if 
they  were  no  better  than  they  had  been  the  day 
before  they  ought  still  to  be  up  and  sunning.  He 
wondered  what  had  happened.  A  fear  that  the 
drug  had  failed  him  mingled  with  his  memory  of  a 
book  about  man-eating  lions.  He  broke  into  a 
run. 

He  had  only  to  push  aside  the  tarpaulin  which 
served  for  door  to  see  that  the  two  patients  had 
gone.  When  they  had  gone,  there  was  no  means  of 
knowing  ;  but  gone  they  were.  They  had  gone  at 
a  time  when  there  had  been  light  enough  for  them 
to  see  the  biscuits  and  the  bucket  ;  for  biscuits 
and  bucket  were  gone  with  them.  He  could  see  no 
trace  of  the  two  men  on  the  wide  savannah  which 
rolled  away  below  him.  He  supposed  that  some 
homing  instinct  had  sent  them  back  to  the  village. 
He  was  cheered  by  the  thought.  They  had  been 
cured  within  two  days.  They  had  been  changed 
from  oafish  lumps  into  thinking  beings.  Now 
he  would  cure  Lionel  in  the  same  way.     As  he 

247 


MULTHUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

hurried  back  to  "  Portobe,"  he  was  thankful  that 
some  of  the  drug  remained  to  them.  He  would 
have  been  in  a  strange  quandary  had  they  used  all 
the  drug  two  days  before. 


248 


XI 

There's  a  lean  fellow  beats  all  conquerors. 

Old  Fortunatm. 

WHEN  he  began  to  prepare  to  give  the  injec- 
tion, he  could  not  find  the  atoxyl  bottle. 
He  searched  anxiously  through  the  hut  for  it, 
but  could  not  find  it.  It  was  an  unmistakable 
glass  bottle,  half-full  of  distilled  water,  at  the 
bottom  of  which  lay  some  of  the  white  sediment 
as  yet  undissolved.  The  bottle  bore  a  square 
white  label,  marked  atoxyl  in  big  capitals,  printed 
by  Lionel  with  a  blue  pencil.  Roger  could  not  see 
it  anywhere.  He  looked  in  all  the  boxes,  one  after 
the  other.  He  looked  in  the  gun-cases,  under 
the  folds  of  the  tent,  in  the  chinks  and  crannies, 
everywhere.  It  was  not  there.  When  he  had 
searched  the  hut  twice  from  end  to  end,  in  different 
directions,  he  decided  that  it  was  not  there.  His 
next  thought  was  that  it  must  have  been  left  in 
the  hut  with  the  two  patients,  and  that  the  patients 
must  have  carried  it  off  as  treasure  trove.  In 
that  case,  perhaps,  it  would  be  gone  for  ever.  He 
would  have  noticed  it  that  morning  had  it  been 
still  in  the  hut.  Then  he  thought  that  it  might  still 
be  in  the  hut.  It  might  have  been  put  behind 
a  box.  He  might  have  failed  to  see  it.  It  was 
necessary  to  make  certain.  He  hurried  to  the  hut 
and  searched  it  through.     A  couple  of  minutes  of 

249 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

searching   shewed   him   that    the    bottle   was    not 
there. 

He  racked  his  brains,  trying  to  think  what  had 
become  of  it.     When  had  he  last  seen  it  ?     Lionel 
and  he  had  been  at  the  hut  during  the  preceding 
afternoon.     They  had  staked  in  the  uprights   of 
the  shelter  ;    and  had  then  knocked  off  for  a  rest, 
as  Lionel  was  not  feeling  well.     During  the  rest  he 
(Roger)  had  brought  the  atoxyl  from  "  Portobe," 
and  had   given   the  second  injection   to   the   two 
patients.     So    much   was    clear.     What   had   hap- 
pened then  ?     He  tried  to  remember.     After  that 
he  had  gone  on  with  the  building,  while  Lionel 
had    rested.     He    distinctly    remembered    Lionel 
sitting  down  on  the  wall-top  with  the  atoxyl  bottle 
in  his  hands.     What  had  he  done  with  it   after 
that  ?     Surely  he  had  taken  it  back  with  him  to 
"  Portobe  "  ?     In  any  case  there  could  be  no  doubt 
that  Lionel  had  been  the  last  to  touch  it.     Lionel 
had  taken  the  bottle  to  put  it  away  ;   and  it  seemed 
now  only  too  likely  that  he  had  put  it  away  in  a 
place  where  no  one  else  could  find  it. 

Roger  tried  to  remember  exactly  how  ill  Lionel 
had  been  when  he  had  gone  back  to  "Portobe." 
He  remembered  that  he  had  been  flushed  and 
peevish,  but  he  could  not  remember  any  symptoms 
of  hght-headedness.  He  had  crept  off  alone  while 
Roger  was  fixing  a  roof-ridge.  Roger,  suddenly 
noticing  that  he  had  gone,  had  followed  him  to 
"  Portobe,"  and  had  found  him  sitting  vacantly  on 
the  floor,  staring  with  unseeing  eyes.  It  was 
certain  that  the  atoxyl  bottle  was  not  with  him 

then. 

250 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

"  If  that  were  so,"  said  Roger  to  himself,  "  he 
must  have  dropped  it  or  put  it  down  between 
"  Portobe  "  and  this.  Here  is  where  he  was  sitting. 
This  is  the  path  by  which  he  walked.  Is  the  bottle 
anywhere  on  the  path,  or  near  it  ?  "  It  was  not. 
Careful  search  shewed  that  it  was  not.  "  Well," 
said  Roger  to  himself,  "  he  must  have  thrown  it 
away.  The  fever  made  him  desperate  or  peevish 
for  a  moment,  and  he  has  thrown  it  away.  Where 
could  he  have  thrown  it  ?  " 

Unfortunately  there  was  a  wide  expanse  over 
which  he  might  have  thrown  it.  If  he  had  thrown 
it  downhill  it  might  have  rolled  far,  after  hitting 
the  ground.  If  he  had  thrown  it  uphill,  it  might 
have  got  hidden  or  smashed  among  the  loose  stones 
from  the  ruins.  Having  satisfied  himself  that 
Lionel  for  the  moment  was  not  appreciably  worse, 
Roger  started  down  the  village  to  find  his  two 
patients.  He  thought  that  if  they  could  be  made 
to  understand  what  was  missing,  the  search  for 
the  bottle  might  be  made  by  three  pairs  of  eyes 
instead  of  by  one.  Some  possibility,  or,  to  be 
more  exact,  some  hope  of  a  possibility,  of  the  bottle 
being  in  the  possession  of  the  patients,  occurred 
to  him.  The  thought  that  perhaps  Lionel's  life 
depended  on  the  caprice  of  two  cheerful  negro- 
boys  made  him  tremble. 

There  was  no  trace  of  the  patients  in  the  village. 
They  were  not  there,  nor  was  Roger  enough  skilled 
in  tracking  to  know  whether  they  had  been  there. 
As  they  were  not  there,  he  could  only  suppose 
that,  on  finding  themselves  whole,  among  the 
wreck  of  their  tribe,   they  had  set  out  to  follow 

251 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

.  their  fellows  by  the  tracks  left  by  the  cattle.  He 
thought  it  possible  that  they  might  return  soon, 
in  a  day  or  two,  if  not  that  very  day.  But  there 
was  not  much  chance  of  their  returning  with  the 
atoxyl  bottle,  even  if  they  had  set  out  with  it. 
He  figured  to  himself  the  progression  of  a  bottle 
in  the  emotional  estimation  of  a  negro  who  had 
never  before  seen  one.  First,  it  would  appear 
as  a  rich  treasure,  something  to  be  boldly  stolen, 
but  fearfully  prized.  Then  it  would  appear  as 
something  with  cubic  capacity,  possibly  containing 
potables.  Then,  after  sampling  of  the  potable, 
in  this  case  unpleasant,  it  would  be  emptied.  Its 
final  position  ranged  between  the  personal  orna- 
ment and  the  cock-shy.  Meanwhile,  Roger  had 
the  sick  to  feed. 

After  that  he  returned  to  Lionel.  Lionel's 
temperature  had  dropped  slightly,  but  he  was 
hardly  conscious  yet.  Roger  left  him  while  he 
began  the  weary,  fruitless  search  over  a  space 
of  Africa  a  hundred  yards  long  by  eighty  broad. 
He  measured  a  space  forty  yards  on  each  side  of 
the  track  between  the  hut  and  "Portobe."  If  the 
bottle  had  been  thrown  away,  it  had  been  thrown 
away  within  that  space.  It  was  unlikely  to  have 
fallen  more  than  forty  yards  from  the  track.  A 
squat  short-necked  bottle  is  not  an  easy  thing  to 
throw.  If  it  were  not  there,  then  he  would  have 
to  conclude  that  the  patients  had  taken  it.  It 
was  a  long,  exhausting  search.  It  was  as  wearisome 
as  the  search  for  lost  ball  at  cricket.  But  in  this 
case  the  seeker  knew  that  his  comrade's  life  de- 
pended   on    his    success.     He    paced    to    and    fro, 

252 


MULTITUDE    AND    SOLITUDE 

treading  over  every  inch  of  the  measured  ground, 
beating  it  beneath  his  feet,  stamping  to  scare  the 
snakes,  feehng  his  blood  leap  whenever  he  struck 
a  stone.  The  sun  filled  earth  and  sky  with  wrink- 
lings of  brass  and  glass  at  white,  tremulous  heat, 
oozing  in  discs  from  his  vortex  of  spilling  glare. 
Many  times  in  the  agony  of  that  search  Roger  had 
to  break  off  to  look  to  Lionel,  and  to  drink  from 
the  canvas  bucket  of  boiled  water.  He  prayed 
that  Lionel  might  recover  consciousness,  if  only 
for  a  minute,  so  that  he  might  tell  him  in  which 
direction  the  bottle  had  been  flung.  But  Lionel 
did  not  recover  consciousness.  He  lay  in  his  bed, 
muttering  to  himself,  talking  nonsense  in  a  little, 
low,  indifferent  voice.  The  most  that  Roger 
could  say  for  him  was  that  he  was  quieter.  His 
hands  were  quieter  ;  his  voice  was  quieter.  It 
was  nothing  to  be  thankful  for.  It  meant  merely 
that  the  patient  was  weaker. 

After  it  was  over,  Roger  thought  that  his  search 
for  the  lost  bottle  was  the  best  thing  he  had  ever 
done.  He  had  trampled  carefully  over  every  inch 
of  the  measured  ground.  He  had  taken  no  chances, 
he  had  neglected  no  possible  hole  nor  tussock. 
A  wide  space  of  trodden  grass  and  battered  shrub 
testified  to  the  thoroughness  of  his  painful  hunt. 
And  all  was  useless.  The  bottle  was  not  there. 
The  atoxyl  was  lost. 

Once  before,  several  years  past,  Roger  had 
watched  the  approaching  death  of  one  intimately 
known.  He  had  seen  his  drunken  father  dying. 
He  had  not  loved  his  father  ;  he  had  felt  little 
grief  for  him.     But  the  sight  of  him  dying  woke 

253 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

in  him  a  blind  pity  for  all  poor  groping  human 
souls,  "  who  work  themselves  such  wrong  "  in  a 
world  so  beautiful  given  for  so  short  a  time.  He 
had  looked  on  that  death  as  though  it  were  a 
natural  force,  grave  and  pitiless  as  wisdom,  hiding 
some  erring  thing  which  had  been  at  variance  from 
it.  He  had  thought  of  Ottalie's  death,  down  in 
the  cabin,  among  the  wreck  of  the  supper-tables. 
In  his  mind  he  had  seen  Ottalie,  so  often,  flung 
down  on  to  the  rank  of  revolving  chairs,  and 
struggling  up  with  wild  eyes,  but  with  noble 
courage  even  then,  to  meet  the  flood  shocking  in 
to  end  her.  That  death  seemed  a  monstrous, 
useless  horror  to  him.  Now  a  link  which  bound 
him  to  Ottalie  was  about  to  snap.  He  was  watching 
the  sick-bed  of  a  man  who  had  often  talked  with 
her,  a  man  who  had  known  her  intimately.  Lionel, 
with  the  simple,  charming  spirit,  so  like  in  so 
many  ways  what  Ottalie  would  have  been  had  she 
been  born  a  man,  was  mortally  sick.  The  sight  of 
him  lying  there  unconscious  struck  him  to  the 
heart.  That  mumbling  body  on  the  bed  was  his 
friend,  his  dear  comrade,  a  Unk  binding  him  to 
everything  which  he  cherished.  A  veil  was  being- 
drawn  across  his  friend's  mind.  He  was  watching 
it  come  closer  and  closer,  and  the  house  within 
grow  dark.  In  a  little  while  it  would  be  drawn 
down  close,  shutting  in  the  life  for  ever.  If  he 
did  not  act  at  once  it  would  be  too  late  ;  Lionel 
would  die.  If  Lionel  were  to  die,  he  would  be 
alone  in  Africa,  with  that  thing  on  the  bed. 

He  knelt  down  by  the  cot  in  a  whirl  of  jarring 
suggestions.     What  was  he  to  do  ?     Anxiety  had 

254 


MULTITUDE    AND    SOLITUDE 

lifted  him  out  of  himself  on  to  another  plane,  a 
plane  of  torturing  emotion.  He  felt  a  painful 
clearness  of  intellect  and  an  utter  deadness  of 
controlling  will.  His  ideas  swarmed  in  his  head, 
yet  he  had  no  power  to  select  from  them.  He 
saw  so  many  things  which  he  might  be  doing ; 
building  a  raft  to  take  them  to  Malakoto,  making, 
or  trying  to  make,  a  serum,  to  nullify  the  infection  ; 
there  were  many  things.  But  how  could  he  leave 
Lionel  in  this  state,  and  how  was  he  to  get  Lionel 
out  of  this  state  ?  He  told  himself  that  large 
doses  of  arsenic  might  be  of  use  ;  the  next  moment 
he  realized  that  they  would  be  useless.  He  had 
tried  to  make  Lionel  take  arsenic  on  the  voyage 
upstream,  as  a  prophylactic.  Lionel  had  replied 
that  arsenic  was  no  good  to  him.  "  Trypanosomes," 
he  had  said,  "  become  inured  to  particular  drugs. 
Mine  got  inured  to  arsenic  the  last  time  I  was  out 
here.  If  my  trypanosomes  recur  you'll  have  to 
try  something  else."     What  rise  was  he  to  try  ? 

He  had  read  that  marked  temporary  improve- 
ment shews  itself  after  a  variety  of  treatments,  after 
any  treatment,  in  fact,  which  tends  to  improve  the 
health  of  particular  organs.  He  tried  the  simplest 
and  least  dangerous  of  those  which  he  remembered. 
It  could  do  no  harm,  in  any  case.  If  it  did  good, 
he  would  feel  braced  to  try  something  more  search- 
ing. 

The  mere  act  of  administering  the  dose 
strengthened  him.  Action  is  always  a  cordial 
to  a  mind  at  war  with  itself.  At  times  of  con- 
flagration the  fiddle  has  saved  more  than  Nero  from 
disquieting  thought,  tending  to  suicide.     When  at 

255 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

last  he  had  forced  his  will  to  the  selection  of  a  course, 
he  felt  more  sure  of  himself.  He  set  about  the 
preparation  of  food  for  the  patient,  and,  when  that 
was  made  and  given,  he  sterilized  his  hands  for  the 
beginning  of  the  delicate  task  of  culture-making. 
He  had  plenty  of  tubes  of  media  of  different  kinds. 
He  selected  those  most  likely  to  give  quick  results. 
They  were  media  of  bouillon  and  agar.  One  of 
them,  a  special  medium  of  rabbit's  flesh  and  Witte's 
peptone,  had  been  prepared  by  Lionel  months 
before,  in  far-distant  London.  Roger  remembered 
how  they  had  talked  together,  in  their  enthusiasm, 
during  the  making  of  that  medium.  He  had  had 
little  thought  then  of  the  circumstances  under 
which  it  would  come  to  be  used.  He  had  never 
before  felt  home-sick  for  London.  He  was  home- 
sick now.  He  longed  to  be  back  in  London  with 
Lionel,  in  the  bare,  airy  room  in  Pump  Court, 
where  the  noise  of  the  Strand  seemed  like  the  noise 
of  distant  trains  which  never  passed.  He  longed 
to  be  back  there,  out  of  this  loneliness,  with  Lionel 
well  again.  The  memory  of  their  little  bickerings 
came  back  to  him.  Travel  is  said  to  knock  off  the 
angles  of  a  man.  If  the  man  has  fire  in  him,  the 
process  may  burn  the  fingers  of  those  near  him. 
Little  moments  of  irritation,  after  sleepless  nights, 
after  fever,  after  over-exertion,  had  flamed  up 
between  them.  No  Europeans  can  travel  to- 
gether for  many  hundreds  of  miles  in  the  tropics 
without  these  irritable  moments.  They  derive 
from  physical  weakness  of  some  kind,  rather  than 
from  any  weakness  of  character,  though  the  links 
which  bind  the  two  are,  of  course,  close  and  subtle. 

256 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

He  told  himself  this ;  but  he  was  not  to  be  com- 
forted. The  memory  of  those  occasional,  mo- 
mentary jarrings  gave  him  keen  pain.  If  Lionel 
got  over  this  illness,  he  would  make  it  up  to  him. 
He  thought  of  many  means  by  which  he  might 
make  their  journey  together  more  an  adventure 
of  the  finer  character.  "  Lionel,"  he  said,  aloud, 
looking  down  on  the  sick  man,  "  I  want  you  to 
forgive  me." 

There  was  no  sign  of  comprehension  from  Lionel. 
He  lay  there  muttering  nervously.  His  skin  was 
hot  to  the  touch  with  that  dry  febrile  heat  which 
gives  to  him  who  feels  it  such  a  shocking  sense  of 
the  body's  usurpation  by  malign  power.  His 
temperature  was  beginning  to  show  the  marked 
and  dreadful  evening  rise.  Roger  could  guess  from 
that  that  there  would  be  no  improvement  until  the 
morning  fall.  After  feeling  the  fluttering,  rapid 
pulse,  and  the  weakness  of  the  movements  of  the 
hands,  he  had  grave  doubts  whether  the  body 
would  be  able  to  stand  the  strain  of  that  sudden 
fall. 

He  dragged  up  a  box  and  sat  staring  at  Lionel, 
torn  by  many  thoughts.  One  thought  was  that 
these  moments  would  be  less  terrible  if  we  could 
live  always  in  this  awakened  sense  of  the  responsi- 
bility and  wonder  of  life.  Life  was  not  a  suc- 
cession of  actions,  planned  or  not  planned,  success- 
ful or  thwarted,  nor  was  it  a  "  congressus  material  " 
held  together  for  a  time  by  food  and  exercise. 
It  was  something  tested  by  and  evolved  from  those 
things,  which  were,  in  a  sense,  its  instruments, 
the  bricks  with  which  the  house  is  built.     He  began 

s  257 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

to  realize  how  hard  it  is  to  follow  life  in  a  world  in 
which  the  things  of  life  have  such  bright  colours 
and  moving  qualities.  He  had  not  realized  it 
before,  even  when  he  had  been  humbled  by  the 
news  of  Ottalie's  death. 

In  his  torment  he  "  thought  long  "  of  Ottalie. 
He  called  back  to  his  memory  all  those  beautiful 
days,  up  the  glens,  among  the  hills.  Words  which 
she  had  spoken  came  back  to  him,  each  phrase  a 
precious  stone,  carefully  set  in  his  imagination  of 
what  the  prompting  thought  had  been  in  her  mind. 
Ottalie  had  lived.  He  could  imagine  Ottalie 
sitting  in  judgment  upon  all  the  days  of  her  life 
ranked  in  coloured  succession  before  her,  and  finding 
none  which  had  been  lived  without  reference, 
however  unconscious,  to  some  fine  conception  of 
what  exists  unchangingly,  though  only  half  ex- 
pressed by  us. 

He  roused  himself.  That  was  why  women  are 
so  much  finer  than  men  ;  they  are  occupied  with 
life  itself,  men  with  its  products,  or  its  management. 
Whatever  his  shortcomings  had  been,  he  was  no 
longer  dealing  with  the  things  of  life,  but  with  life 
itself. 

Here  he  was,  for  the  first  time,  squarely  face 
to  face  with  a  test  of  his  readiness  to  deal  with  life. 
He  forced  himself  to  work  again,  following  the 
process  with  a  cautious  nicety  of  delicate  care  which 
an  older  artist  would  have  despised  as  niggling  and 
stippling.  From  time  to  time  he  stopped  to  look 
at  Lionel,  and  to  take  the  temperature.  The 
temperature  was  swiftly  rising. 

After  some  days  the  fever  left  Lionel.     It  left 

258 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

him  with  well-marked  symptoms  of  sleeping  sick- 
ness. The  man  was  gone.  The  body  remained, 
weak  and  trembling,  sufficiently  conscious  to  answer 
simple  questions,  but  neither  energetic  enough  to 
speak  unprompted,  nor  to  ask  for  food  when 
hungry.  How  long  he  might  live  in  that  state 
Roger  could  not  guess.  He  might  live  for  some 
weeks ;  he  might  die  suddenly,  shaken  by  the 
violent  changing  of  the  temperature  between 
night  and  morning.  It  was  not  till  the  power  of 
speech  was  checked  that  the  horror  of  it  came  home 
to  Roger.  Lionel's  monosyllables  became  daily 
less  distinct,  until  at  last  he  spoke  as  though  his 
tongue  had  grown  too  large  for  his  mouth.  The 
sight  of  his  friend  turning  brutish  before  his  eyes 
made  Roger  weep.  The  strain  was  telling  on  him  ; 
his  recurrent  fever  was  shaking  him.  He  felt  that 
if  Lionel  were  to  die,  he  would  go  mad.  He  could 
not  leave  his  friend.  Even  in  the  daytime,  with 
the  work  to  be  done,  he  could  hardly  bear  to  leave 
him.  At  night  his  one  solace  was  to  stare  at  his 
friend,  in  an  agony  of  morbid  pity,  remembering 
what  that  man  had  been  to  him  before  the  closing 
in  of  the  veil.  The  veil  was  closing  more  tightly 
every  day.  Roger  could  picture  to  himself  the 
change  going  on  inside  the  head,  on  the  surface 
of  the  brain,  behind  the  fine  eyes,  so  drowsy  now. 
Such  a  little  thing  would  arrest  that  change.  Two 
cubic  centimetres  of  a  white  soluble  powder. 
He  went  over  it  in  his  mind,  day  after  day,  till 
the  craving  for  some  of  that  powder  was  more 
than  he  could  bear.  "  Lionel,"  he  would  say. 
"  Lionel,   Lionel."     And  the  drowsy  head  would 

259 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

lift  itself  patiently,  and  grunt,  shewing  some  sort 
of  recognition.  If  Lionel  had  been  a  stranger  (so 
he  told  himself)  it  might  have  been  endurable  ; 
but  every  attitude  and  gesture  of  the  patient  was 
chained  to  his  inmost  life  by  a  hundred  delicate 
links.  That  he  had  known  Ottalie  was  the  sharpest 
thing  to  bear.  In  losing  Lionel  he  was  losing 
something  which  bound  Ottalie  to  him.  Another 
torment  was  the  knowledge  of  his  own  insufficiency- 
He  thought  of  the  strongly  efficient  soldiers  and 
scientists  who  had  studied  the  disease.  He  loathed 
the  years  of  emotional  self-indulgence  which  had 
unfitted  him  for  such  a  crisis.  He  longed  to  have 
for  one  half-hour  the  knowledge  and  skill  of  those 
scientists,  their  scrupulous  clinical  certainty,  their 
reserve  of  alternative  resource. 

In  reality  he  was  doing  very  creditably.  One 
of  the  most  marked  qualities  in  his  character  was 
that  extreme  emotional  tenderness,  or  sensibility, 
which  is  so  strong,  and  in  the  lack  of  the  robuster 
fibres,  so  vicious,  an  ingredient  of  the  artistic  or 
generating  intellect.  This  sensitiveness  had  been 
the  cause  in  him  of  a  scrupulous  aloofness  from 
the  world.  It  had  made  him  maintain  a  sort  of 
chastity  of  idea,  not  so  much  from  an  appreciation 
of  the  value  of  whiteness  of  mind  as  from  an  in- 
herent fastidious  dislike  of  blackness.  As  he  yielded 
more  and  more  to  the  domination  of  this  aloofness, 
as  the  worker  in  an  emotional  art  is  tempted  to  do, 
his  positive  activities  grew  weaker  till  he  had  come 
to  seek  and  appreciate  in  others  those  qualities 
which,  essential  to  manly  nature,  had  been  etiolated 
in  himself  by  the  super-imposition  of  the  unreal. 

260 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

This  desire  to  be  virtuous  vicariously,  by  possessing 
virtuous  friends,  had  been  gratified  pleasantly,  with 
advantage  to  himself,  and  with  real  delight  to 
those  robuster  ones  who  felt  his  charm.  But  the 
removal  of  the  friends  had  shewn  the  essential 
want.  The  man  was  like  a  childless  woman, 
groping  about  blindly  for  an  emotional  outlet. 
In  his  misery  he  found  an  abiding  satisfaction  in 
an  intense  tenderness  to  the  suffering  near  him. 
In  his  knowledge  of  himself  he  had  feared  that  his 
own  bodily  discomfort  would  make  him  a  selfish, 
petulant,  callous  nurse.  Before  Lionel  had  fallen 
ill,  he  had  been  prone  to  complain  of  pains,  often 
real  enough  to  a  weak,  highly  sensitive  nature, 
exposed,  after  years  of  easy  living,  to  the  hardships 
of  tropical  travel.  Lionel's  illness  had  altered  that. 
It  had  lifted  him  into  a  state  of  mental  exaltation. 
In  their  intenser,  spiritual  forms,  such  states  have 
been  called  translation,  gustation  of  God,  in- 
gression  to  the  divine  shadow,  communion  with 
the  higher  self.  They  may  be  defined  as  states  in 
which  the  mind  ceasing  to  be  conscious  of  the 
body  as  a  vehicle,  drives  it  superbly  to  the  dictated 
end,  with  the  indifference  of  a  charioteer  driving 
for  high  stakes. 

Though  in  this  mood  he  was  supported  to  fine 
deeds,  he  was  denied  the  knowledge  of  his  success 
in  them.  His  heart  was  wrung  with  pity  for  the 
sufferers  for  whom  he  cared  so  tenderly,  day  after 
day  ;  but  the  depth  of  his  pity  made  his  impotence 
to  help  an  agony.  He  saw  too  plainly  that  the 
most  that  he  could  do  was  nothing.  In  the  darker 
recesses  of  his   mind  hovered  a  horror  of  giving 

261 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

way  and  relapsing  to  the  barbarism  about  him. 
His  nerve  had  begun  to  tremble  under  the  strain. 
What  he  felt  was  the  recurrence  of  an  intense 
religious  mood  which  had  passed  over  his  mind  at 
the  solemn  beginning  of  manhood.  He  was  finding, 
now,  after  years  of  indifference,  the  cogency  of 
the  old  division  into  good  and  evil.  As  in  boyhood, 
during  that  religious  phase,  he  had  at  times  a  strange, 
unreasonable  sense  of  the  sinfulness  of  certain 
thoughts  and  actions,  which  to  others,  not  awakened, 
and  to  himself,  in  blinder  moods,  seemed  harmless. 
He  began  to  resolve  all  things  into  terms  of  the 
spiritual  war.  All  this  external  horror  was  a 
temptation  of  the  devil,  to  be  battled  with  lest 
the  soul  perish  in  him.  Little  things,  little  mo- 
mentary thoughts,  momentary  promptings  of  the 
sense,  perhaps  only  a  desire  for  rest,  became  charged, 
in  his  new  reckoning  of  values,  with  terrible  sig- 
nificances. Often,  after  three  hours  of  labour  in  the 
village,  after  feeding  and  cleaning  those  drowsy 
dying  children,  in  the  hot  sun,  till  he  was  exhausted 
and  sick  at  heart,  a  fear  of  giving  way  to  the  devil 
urged  him  to  apply  to  them  some  of  the  known 
alleviations,  arsenic,  mercury,  or  the  like.  He 
would  arise,  and  dose  them  all  carefully,  knowing 
that  it  was  useless,  that  it  would  merely  prolong 
a  living  death  ;  but  knowing  also  that  to  do  so, 
at  all  costs,  was  the  duty  of  one  who  had  taken 
the  military  oath  of  birth  into  a  Christian  race. 
He  learned  that  the  higher  notes  of  a  whistle 
pleased  those  even  far  advanced  in  sleep.  He 
found  time  each  day  to  whistle  to  them  in  those 
few  livelier  minutes  before  meals,  when  the  drowsy 

262 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

became  almost  alert.  He  judged  that  anything 
which  stimulated  them  must  necessarily  be  good 
for  them.  He  tried  patiently  and  tenderly  many 
mild  sensual  excitations  on  them,  giving  them 
scent  or  snuff  to  inhale,  letting  them  suck  pieces 
of  his  precious  sugar,  burning  blue  lights  at  night 
before  them,  giving  them  slight  electric  shocks 
from  his  battery.  He  felt  that  by  these  means  he 
kept  alive  the  faculties  of  the  brain  for  some  few  days 
longer.  From  Tiri,  the  wrinkled  old  crone,  the 
only  uninfected  person  there,  he  tried  hard  to 
learn  the  dialect ;  but  age  had  frozen  her  brain, 
he  could  learn  nothing  from  her  except  "  Katir- 
kama."  He  never  rightly  knew  what  Katirkama 
was.  It  was  something  very  amusing,  since  it 
made  her  laugh  heartily  whenever  it  was  mentioned. 
It  had  something  to  do  with  drumming  on  a 
native  drum.  Katirkama.  He  beat  the  drum, 
and  the  old  body  became  one  nod  of  laughter, 
bowing  to  the  beat  with  chuckles.  "  Katirkama," 
she  cried,  giggling.  "  Katirkama."  After  Katir- 
kama she  would  follow  him  about,  holding  his 
hand,  squeaking,  till  he  gave  her  some  sugar. 

When  the  work  in  the  village  was  finished,  he 
used  to  walk  back  to  Lionel,  whom  he  would  find 
drowsed,  just  as  he  had  left  him.  On  good  days 
he  had  some  little  experiment  to  make.  He  would 
repeat  some  trick  or  accidental  gesture  which 
had  caught  the  dying  attention  of  a  native.  If 
he  were  lucky,  the  trick  brought  back  some  lively 
shadow  of  Lionel.  Even  if  it  passed  away  at  once, 
it  was  cheering  to  see  that  shadow.  More  usually 
the  trick  failed.     Having  seen  the  occasional  effect 

263 


MULJITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

of  them,  he  became  studious  of  tricks  which  might 
help  to  keep  the  intelHgence  alert.  The  sight 
of  Lionel  gave  him  so  crushing  a  sense  of  what 
was  happening  in  the  affected  brain,  that  he  found 
it  easy  to  imagine  fancies  which,  as  he  judged, 
would  be  arresting  to  it.  The  burning  of 
magnesium  wire  and  the  turning  of  a  policeman's 
rattle  were  his  most  successful  efforts.  One  day, 
while  carefully  dropping  some  dilute  carbolic 
acid  into  a  chegua  nest  on  Lionel's  foot,  he  found 
that  the  burning  sensation  gave  pleasure.  It 
seemed  to  reach  the  brain  like  a  numbed  tickling. 
Lionel  laughed  a  little  uneasy,  nervous  laugh.  It 
was  the  only  laughter  heard  at  "  Portobe "  for 
many  days. 

Though  his  work  occupied  him  for  ten  hours 
daily,  it  did  not  occupy  the  whole  of  him.  Much 
of  it,  such  as  the  preparation  of  food  and  the  daily 
disinfection  of  the  huts,  was  mechanical.  His 
mind  was  left  free  to  console  itself  by  speculation 
as  best  it  could.  His  first  impressions  of  the  solitude 
were  ghastly  and  overpowering.  Waking  and  asleep 
he  felt  the  horror  of  the  prospect  of  losing  Lionel. 
It  was  not  that  he  dreaded  the  prospect  of  being 
alone.  His  fear  was  religious.  He  feared  that 
the  barbarism  of  the  solitude  would  overpower 
his  little  drilled  force  of  civilized  sentiment.  He 
was  warring  against  barbarism.  Lionel  was  his 
powerful  ally.  Looking  out  from  his  hut  on  the 
hill  he  could  see  barbarism  all  round  him,  in  a 
vast  and  very  silent,  menacing  landscape,  secret  in 
forest,  sullen  in  its  red,  shrinking  river,  brooding 
in  the  great  plain,  dotted  with  bones  and  stones. 

264 


MULTITUDE    AND    SOLITUDE 

Even'^the  littleness  o£  an  English  landscape  would 
have  been  hard  to  bear,  but  this  immensity  of 
savagery  awed  him.  He  doubted  whether  he 
would  be  able  to  bear  the  presence  o£  that  sight 
without  his  ally  by  him. 

He  knew  that  if  he  let  it  begin  to  get  upon  his 
nerves  he  would  be  ruined.  He  took  himself  in 
hand  on  the  second  day  of  Lionel's  fever.  His 
situation  made  him  remember  a  conversation  heard 
years  before  at  his  rooms  in  Westminster.  O'Neill 
and  a  young  Australian  journalist,  of  the  crude 
and  vigorous  kind  nurtured  by  the  Bulletin,  had 
passed  the  evening  in  talk  with  him.  The  Aus- 
tralian had  told  them  of  the  loneliness  of  Australia, 
and  of  shepherds  and  settlers  who  went  mad  in 
the  loneliness  on  the  clearings  at  the  back  of  be- 
yond. O'Neill  had  said  that  at  present  Australian 
literature  was  the  product  of  home-sick  English- 
men ;  but  that  a  true  Australian  literature  would 
begin  among  those  lonely  ones.  "  One  of  those 
fellows  just  going  mad  will  begin  a  literature. 
And  that  literature  will  be  the  distinctiv.:  Aus- 
tralian literature.  In  the  cities  you  will  only  get 
noisy  imitations  of  what  is  commonest  in  the 
literature  of  the  mother  country."  They  had 
stayed  talking  till  four  in  the  morning.  He  had 
never  seen  the  Australian  since  that  time.  He 
remembered  now  his  stories  of  shepherds  who 
bolted  themselves  into  their  huts  in  the  effort  to 
get  away  from  the  loneliness  which  had  broken 
their  nerve.  He  must  take  care,  he  said,  not  to 
let  that  state  of  mind  take  hold  upon  him. 

He    began    to    school    himself    that    night.     He 

265 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

forced  himself  up  the  hill,  into  the  Zimbabwe, 
at  the  eerie  moment  when  the  dusk  turns  vaguely 
darker,  and  the  stars  are  still  pale.  All  the  dimness 
of  ruin  and  jungle  brooded  malignantly,  informed 
by  menace.  Faint  noises  of  creeping  things  rustled 
in  the  alley  between  the  walls.  Dew  was  fast 
forming.  Drops  wetted  him  with  cold  splashes 
as  he  broke  through  creepers.  Below  him  stretched 
the  continent.  No  light  of  man  burned  in  that 
expanse.  There  was  a  blackness  of  forest,  and 
a  ghostliness  of  grass,  all  still.  Out  of  the  night 
behind  him  came  a  stealthiness  of  approach, 
more  a  sense  than  a  sense  perception.  Coming  in 
the  night,  so  secretly,  it  was  hard  to  locate.  It 
had  that  protective  ventriloquism  of  sounds  pro- 
duced in  the  dark.  There  is  an  animal  sense  in  us, 
not  nearly  etiolated  yet,  which  makes  us  quick  to 
respond  to  a  light  noise  in  the  night.  It  makes  us 
alert  upon  all  sides ;  but  with  a  tremulous  alertness, 
for  we  have  outgrown  the  instinctive  knowledge  of 
what  comes  by  night.  Roger  faced  round  swiftly, 
with  a  knocking  heart.  The  noise,  whatever  it  was, 
ceased.  After  an  instant  of  pause  a  spray,  till  then 
pinned,  swept  loose,  as  though  the  talon  pinning  it 
had  lifted.  It  swept  away  with  a  faint  swishing 
noise,  followed  by  a  pattering  of  drops.  After 
that  there  came  a  silence  while  the  listener  and  the 
hidden  watcher  stared  into  the  blackness  for  what 
should  follow.  The  noise  of  the  spattering  gave 
Roger  a  sense  of  the  direction  of  the  danger,  if  it 
were  danger.  He  drew  out  his  revolver.  Another 
spray  spilled  a  drop  or  two.  Then,  for  an  instant, 
near  the  ground,  not  far  away,  two  greenish  specks 

266 


MULTHUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

burned  like  glow-worms,  like  crawling  fireflies,  like 
two  tiny  electric  lights  suddenly  turned  on.  They 
were  shut  off  instantly.  They  died  into  the  night, 
making  it  blacker.  After  they  had  faded  there 
came  a  hushed  rustling  which  might  have  been 
near  or  far  off.  When  that,  too,  had  died,  there 
was  a  silence. 

It  was  so  still  that  the  dripping  of  the  dew  made 
the  night  like  a  death  vault.  Terrible,  inscrutable 
stars  burned  aloft.  Roger  pressed  his  back  against 
the  wall.  Up  and  up  towered  the  wall,  an 
immense  labour,  a  cynical  pile,  stamped  with  lust's 
cruelties.  It  almost  had  life,  so  seen.  In  front 
was  the  unknown  ;  behind,  that  uncanny  thing. 
Roger  waited,  tense,  till  the  darkness  was  alive 
with  all  fear.  Everything  was  in  the  night  there, 
gibbering  faces,  death,  the  sudden  cold  nosing  of 
death's  pig-snout  on  the  heart.  He  swung  his 
revolver  up,  over  his  left  elbow,  and  fired. 

The  report  crashed  among  the  ruin,  sending  the 
night  rovers  fast  and  far.  Chur-ra-rak !  screamed 
the  scattering  fowl.  Roger  paid  little  heed  to  them. 
He  was  bending  down  in  his  tracks  hugging  his 
forehead.  The  hammer  of  the  kicking  revolver 
had  driven  itself  into  his  brow  with  a  welt  which 
made  him  sick.  He  groped  his  way  down  the  hill 
again,  thinking  himself  lucky  that  the  iron  had  not 
smashed  his  eye.  He  thought  no  more  of  terror 
for  that  night. 

But  the  next  night  it  came  with  the  dark.  The 
old  savage  devil  of  the  dark  was  there  ;  the  dark- 
ness of  loneliness,  the  loneliness  of  silence,  the 
immanent  terror  of  places  not  yet  won,  still  ruled 

267 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

by  the  old  unclean  gods,  not  yet  exorcised  by  virtue. 
Looking  at  it,  after  night  had  fallen,  from  the  door 
of  "  Portobe,"  it  seemed  full  of  the  promise  of  death. 
The  little  rustling  noises  were  there ;  the  sug- 
gestion of  stealthy  death  ;  the  brooding  of  it  all. 
A  braver  man  would  have  been  awed  by  it.  It  was 
not  all  cowardice  which  daunted  Roger.  It  was 
that  animal  something  not  yet  etiolated,  which 
on  a  dark  night  in  a  lonely  place  at  a  noise  of  stirring 
makes  a  man's  heart  thump  like  a  buck's  heart. 
To  stare  into  the  blackness  with  eyes  still  dazzled 
from  the  camp-fire  gave  a  sense  of  contrast  not 
easy  to  overcome.  The  comfort  of  the  fire  was 
something,  something  civilized,  conquered,  human. 
And  the  beloved  figure  lying  ill  was  one  of  his  own 
kind,  leagued  with  him  against  the  inhuman. 
The  vastness  of  the  inhuman  overpowered  his  will. 
He  dared  not  face  it.  Sudden  terror  told  him  of 
something  behind  him.  He  hurried  into  the  hut 
and  heaped  boxes  against  the  tarpaulin  door. 

The  moment  of  fear  passed,  leaving  him  ashamed. 
He  was  giving  way  to  nerves.  That  would  not  do. 
He  must  brace  himself  to  face  the  darkness.  He 
forced  himself  down  the  hill  to  the  village,  and 
into  the  village.  Kneeling  down  he  peered  into 
the  hut  where  old  Tiri  rocked  herself  by  a  fire  of 
reeds,  like  the  withered  beauty  in  Villon.  She 
did  not  see  him.  She  was  crooning  a  ditty.  From 
time  to  time,  with  a  nervous  jerk  of  the  arm,  she 
flung  on  a  handful  of  reed,  which  crackled  and  flared, 
so  that  she  chuckled.  He  was  comforted  by  the 
sight  of  her.  Any  resolute  endurance  of  life  is 
comforting  to  the  perplexed.     He  walked  back  up 

268 


MULTHUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

the  hill  without  the  tremors  he  had  felt  in  going 
down.  Something  in  the  walk,  the  coolness  and 
quiet  of  it,  made  him  forget  his  fears.  He  ex- 
perienced an  animal  feeling  of  being,  for  the 
moment,  at  one  with  the  night.  "  Surely,"  he 
thought,  "  if  man  can  conceive  a  spiritual  state, 
calm  and  august  like  the  night,  he  can  attain  it." 
It  might  even  be  that  hy  brooding  solitary,  like 
the  night  itself,  one  would  arrive  at  the  truth 
sooner  than  by  the  restless  methods  left  behind. 
Standing  by  the  door  of  his  hut  again,  the  darkness 
exalted  him,  not,  in  the  common  way,  by  giving 
him  a  sense  of  the  splendour  of  nature,  but  by 
heightening  for  an  instant  his  knowledge  of  the 
superior  splendour  of  men. 

He  stood  looking  out  for  a  little  while  before 
some  rally  of  delirium  called  him  within  to  his 
friend.  Later,  when  he  had  finished  his  work  for 
the  night,  he  thought  gloomily  of  what  his  fate 
would  be  if  the  death  of  Lionel  left  him  alone 
there,  so  many  miles  from  his  fellows.  What  was 
he  to  do  ?  How  was  he  to  cross  four  hundred 
miles  of  tropical  country  to  the  nearest  settlement 
of  whites  ?  No  civilized  man  had  been  there 
since  the  Phoenicians  fought  their  last  rearguard 
fight  round  the  wagons  of  the  last  gold  train. 
Four  hundred  miles  meant  a  month's  hard  marching, 
even  if  all  went  well.  He  could  not  count  on  doing 
it  in  less  than  a  month.  And  how  was  he  to  live 
during  that  month,  how  guide  himself  ?  Even  in 
mere  distance  it  was  a  hard  walk.  It  was  much 
such  a  walk  as,  say,  from  the  Land's  End  to  Aber- 
deen, but  with  all  the  natural  difficulties  multiplied 

269 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

by  ten,  and  all  the  artificial  helps  removed.  It 
was  going  to  be  forced  on  him.  He  would  have 
to  attempt  that  walk  or  die  alone,  where  he  was, 
after  watching  his  friend  die.  He  glanced  anxiously 
at  Lionel  to  see  if  there  were  any  chance  of  Lionel's 
being  dragged  and  helped  over  that  distance.  He 
saw  no  chance.  He  would  have  to  watch  Lionel 
dying.  He  would  have  to  try  to  stave  off  Lionel's 
death  by  all  the  means  known  to  him,  knowing  all 
the  time  that  all  the  means  were  useless.  Then  he 
would  bury  Lionel,  after  watching  him  die. 
After  that  he  would  have  to  watch  the  villagers 
dying  ;    and  then,  when  quite  alone,  set  forth. 

And  to  what  would  he  set  forth  ?  What  had 
life  to  give  him,  if,  as  was  very  unlikely,  he  should 
win  back  to  life  ?  His  life  was  Ottalie's.  He  had 
consecrated  his  talent  to  her,  he  had  devoted  all 
his  powers  to  her.  The  best  of  his  talent  had  been 
a  shadowy  sentimental  thing,  by  which  no  great 
life  could  be  lived,  no  great  sorrow  overcome. 
The  best  of  his  powers  had  left  him  in  the  centre 
of  a  continent,  helpless  to  do  what  he  had  set  out 
to  do.  He  had  not  made  the  world  "  nobler  for 
her  sake."  Ah,  but  he  would,  he  said,  starting 
up,  filled  suddenly  with  a  vision  of  that  dead  beauty. 
He  would  help  the  world  to  all  that  it  had  lost  in 
her.  He  must  be  Ottalie's  fair  mind  at  work  still, 
blessing  the  world.  So  would  his  mind  possess  her, 
creeping  in  about  her  soul,  drinking  more  and  more 
of  her,  till  her  strength  was  the  strength  by  which 
he  moved.  She  was  very  near  him  then,  he  felt. 
He  felt  that  all  this  outward  world  of  his  was  only  an 
image  of  his  mind,  and  that  she  being  in  his  mind, 

270 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

was  with  him.  His  heart  was  a  wretched  hut  in 
Africa,  in  which  a  sick  man  babbled  to  a  weary  man. 
But  there  in  his  heart,  he  felt,  was  that  silent  guest, 
beautiful  as  of  old,  waiting  in  the  half-darkness, 
waiting  quietly,  watching  him,  wanting  him  to 
do  the  right  thing,  waiting  till  it  was  done,  so  that 
she  might  rise,  and  walk  to  him,  and  take  his  hands. 
He  must  not  fail  her. 

He  turned  to  the  corner  in  which  he  felt  her 
presence.  "  Ottalie  !  Ottalie  !  "  he  said  in  a  low 
voice.  "  Ottalie,  dear,  help  me  to  do  this.  I'm 
going  to  fail,  dear.  Help  me  not  to."  Lionel 
moaned  a  little,  turning  on  his  side  again.  A 
draught  ruffled  the  fire  slightly.  No  answer  moved 
in  his  heart.  He  had  half  expected  that  the  answer 
would  speak  within  him,  in  three  short  words.  No 
words  came.  Instead,  he  felt  burningly  the  image 
of  Ottalie  as  he  had  seen  her  once  up  the  Craga' 
Burn,  one  summer  at  sunset.  They  had  stood 
among  the  moors  together,  on  the  burn's  flat  grassy 
bank,  near  a  little  drumming  fall,  which  guggled 
over  a  sway  of  rushes.  Sunset  had  given  a  glory  to 
the  moors.  All  the  great  hills  rose  up  in  the  vision- 
ary clearness  of  an  Irish  evening  after  rain.  A  glow 
like  the  glow  of  health  was  on  them.  It  was 
ruddy  on  Ottalie's  cheek,  as  she  turned  her  grave 
hazel  eyes  upon  him,  smiling,  to  ask  him  if  he  saw 
the  Rest  House.  She  meant  a  magic  rest-house, 
said,  in  popular  story,  to  be  somewhere  on  the  hill 
up  Craga'  way.  Roger  had  talked  with  men  who 
claimed  to  have  been  beguiled  there  by  "  them  " 
to  rest  for  the  night.  Ottalie  and  he  had  narrowed 
down  its  possible  whereabouts  almost  to  the  spot 

271 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

where  they  were  standing ;  and  she  had  turned, 
smiHng,  with  the  sun  upon  her,  to  ask  him  if  he 
saw  it.  They  had  never  seen  it,  though  they  had 
often  looked  for  it  at  magical  moments  of  the  day. 
Now  looking  back  he  saw  that  old  day  with  all 
the  glow  of  the  long-set  sun.  Ottalie,  and  him- 
self, and  the  Craga'  Burn,  the  rush  sway  trailing, 
the  pleasant,  faint  smell  of  the  blight  on  the  patch 
beyond,  the  whiff  of  turf  smoke.  Ottalie.  Ottalie. 
Ottalie  in  the  blind  grave  with  the  dogrose  on  her 
breast. 

Living  alone  fosters  an  intensity  of  personal 
life  which  sometimes  extinguishes  the  social  instinct, 
even  in  those  who  live  alone  by  the  compulsion  of 
accident.  It  had  become  Roger's  lot  to  look  into 
himself  for  solace.  Most  of  those  things  which 
society  had  given  to  him  during  his  short,  impression- 
able life  were  useless  to  him.  He  had  to  depend 
now  upon  the  intensity  of  his  own  nature.  He 
reckoned  up  the  extent  of  his  civilization,  as  shewn 
by  the  amount  retained  in  his  memory.  It 
amounted,  when  all  was  said,  when  allowance  had 
been  made  for  the  amount  absorbed  unconsciously 
into  character,  to  a  variety  of  smatterings,  some 
of  them  pleasant,  some  interesting,  and  all  tinged 
by  the  vividness  of  his  personal  predilection.  He 
had  read,  either  in  the  original  or  in  translation, 
all  the  masterpieces  of  European  literature.  He 
had  seen,  either  in  the  original  or  in  reproduction, 
all  the  masterpieces  of  European  art.  His  memory 
for  art  and  literature  was  a  good  general  one  ;  but 
general  knowledge  was  now  useless  to  him.  What 
he  wanted  was  particular  knowledge,   memory  of 

272 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

precise,  firm,  intellectual  images,  in  words,  or 
colour,  or  bronze,  to  give  to  his  mind  the  strength 
of  their  various  order,  as  he  brooded  on  them 
menaced  by  death.  It  was  surprising  to  him  how 
little  remained  of  all  that  he  had  read  and  seen. 
The  tale  of  Troy  remained,  very  vividly,  with 
many  of  the  tragedies  rising  from  it.  Dante  re- 
mained. The  Morte  D'Arthur  remained.  Much 
of  the  Bible  remained.  Of  Shakespeare  he  had  a 
little  pocket  volume  containing  eight  plays.  These, 
and  the  memories  connected  with  them,  were  in 
his  mind  with  a  reality  not  till  then  known  to  him. 
Among  the  lesser  writers  he  found  that  his  memory 
was  kinder  to  those  whom  he  had  learned  by  heart 
as  a  boy  than  to  those  whom  he  had  read  with  in- 
terest as  a  man.  He  knew  more  Scott  than  Flaubert, 
and  more  Mayne  Reid  than  Scott.  From  thinking 
over  these  earlier  literary  idols,  with  a  fierceness  of 
tenderness  not  to  be  understood  save  by  those 
who  have  been  forced,  as  he  was  forced,  to  the 
construction  of  an  intense  inner  life,  he  began  to 
realize  the  depth  and  strength  of  the  emotion  of 
the  indulgence  of  memory. 

Thenceforward  he  indulged  his  memory  when- 
ever his  work  spared  his  intelligence.  He  lived 
again  in  his  past  more  intensely  than  he  had  ever 
lived.  His  life  in  Ireland,  his  days  with  Ottalie, 
her  words  and  ways  and  looks,  he  realized  again 
minutely  with  an  exactness  which  was,  perhaps, 
half  imaginative.  He  troubled  his  peace  with  the 
sweetness  of  those  visions.  The  more  deeply  true 
they  were,  the  more  strong  their  colour ;  the  more 
intense  the  vibration  of  their  speech,  the  more  sharp 
T  273 


MUL7HUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

was  the  knowledge  of  their  unreality,  the  more 
bitter  the  longing  for  the  reality.  He  was  home- 
sick for  the  Irish  hills  which  rose  up  in  his  mind  so 
clearly,  threaded  by  the  flash  of  silver.  He  thought 
of  them  hour  after  hour  with  a  yearning,  brooding 
vision  which  gnawed  at  his  heart-strings. 

After  a  few  weeks  he  found  that  he  could  think 
of  them  without  that  torment.  He  had  perfected 
his  imagination  of  them  by  an  intensity  of  thought. 
They  had  become,  as  it  were,  a  real  country  in  his 
brain,  through  which  his  mind  could  walk  at  will, 
almost  as  he  had  walked  in  the  reality.  By  mental 
effort,  absorbing  his  now  narrowed  external  life, 
he  could  imagine  himself  walking  with  Ottalie  up 
the  well-known  waters  and  loanings,  so  poignantly, 
with  such  precision  of  imagined  detail,  that  the 
country  seen  by  him  as  he  passed  through  it  was 
as  deeply  felt  as  the  real  scene.  The  solemnity  of 
his  life  made  his  imagination  of  Ottalie  deeper  and 
more  precious.  At  times  he  felt  her  by  him,  as 
though  an  older,  unearthly  sister  walked  with  him, 
half  friend,  half  guide.  At  other  times,  when  he 
was  lucky,  in  the  intense  and  splendid  dreams  which 
come  to  those  of  dwarfed  lives,  he  saw  her  in  vision. 
Such  times  were  white  times,  which  made  whole 
days  precious  ;  but  at  all  times  he  had  clear, 
precise  memories  of  her  ;  and,  better  still,  a  truer 
knowledge  of  her,  and,  through  that,  a  truer 
knowledge  of  life.  He  thought  of  her  more  than 
of  his  work.  In  thinking  of  her  he  was  thankful 
that  all  his  best  work  had  been  written  in  her 
praise.  "  His  spirit  was  hers,  the  better  part  of 
him."     If  he  had  anything  good  in  him,  or  which 

274 


MULTITUDE   AND   SOLITUDE 

strained  towards  good,  she  had  put  it  there  in  the 
beauty  of  her  passing.  If  he  might  find  this  cure, 
helping  poor  suffering  man,  it  would  be  only  a 
spark  of  her,  smouldering  to  sudden  burning  in  a 
heap  of  tow. 

His  efforts  to  make  a  culture  succeeded.  With 
very  great  difficulty  he  obtained  a  vigorous  culture 
of  trypanosomes,  of  the  small  kind  usually  obtained 
by  culture.  He  strove  to  make  the  culture  virulent, 
by  growing  it  at  the  artificial  equable  temperature 
most  favourable  to  the  growth  of  the  germ  (25°  C), 
and  by  adding  to  the  bouillon  on  which  the  germs 
fed  minute  quantities  of  those  chemical  qualities 
likely  to  strengthen  them  in  one  way  or  another. 

It  was  a  slow  process,  and  Roger  could  ill  spare 
time  in  his  race  with  death.  He  had  grown  calmer 
and  less  impulsive  since  he  had  left  the  feverish, 
impulsive  city  ;  but  he  had  not  yet  acquired  the 
detachment  from  circumstance  of  the  doctor  or 
soldier.  The  question  "  Shall  I  be  in  time  ? "  was 
always  jarring  upon  the  precept  "  You  must  not 
hurry."  At  last,  one  day  when  Lionel  had  shewn 
less  responsiveness  than  usual,  a  temporary  despon- 
dency made  him  give  up  hope.  He  saw  no  chance 
of  having  his  anti-toxin  ready  before  Lionel  died. 
He  picked  up  a  book  on  serum  therapy,  and  turned 
the  pages  idly.     A  heading  caught  his  eye. 

"  The  treatment  should  begin  soon  after  the  disease 
has  declared  itself "  ran  the  heading.  The  para- 
graph went  on  to  say  that  the  anti-toxin  was  little 
likely  to  be  of  use  after  the  toxin  had  taken  a 
strong  hold  upon  the  patient's  system.  Thetreat- 
ment  was  more  likely  to  be  successful  if  a  large 

275 


MULTHUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

initial  injection  of  the  anti-toxin  were  given 
directly  the  disease  became  evident.  There  it 
was,  in  black  and  white  ;  it  was  no  use  going  on. 
He  had  tried  all  his  ameliorative  measures,  with 
temporary  success.  Latterly  he  had  tried  them 
sparingly,  fearing  to  immunize  the  germ.  He  had 
wanted  to  keep  by  him  unused  some  strong  drug 
which  would  hold  off  the  disease  at  the  end.  Now 
there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  give  the  strong 
drug.  His  friend  was  dying.  He  might  burn  his 
ships  and  comb  his  hair  for  death.  He  had  tried 
and  failed. 

The  mood  of  depression  had  been  ushered  in 
by  an  attack  of  fever  different  from  his  other  attacks. 
It  did  not  pass  off"  after  following  a  regular  course, 
like  the  recurrent  malaria.  It  hung  upon  him  in  a 
constant,  cutting  headache,  which  took  the  strength 
out  of  him.  He  sat  dully,  weak  as  water,  with  a 
clanging  head,  repeating  that  Lionel  was  dying. 
Lionel  was  dying.  One  had  only  to  think  for  a 
moment  to  see  that  it  was  hopeless.  Lionel  was 
going  to  die. 

He  raised  his  hand,  thinking  that  something 
had  bitten  his  throat.  His  throat  glands  were 
swollen.  For  a  moment  he  thought  that  the 
sweUing  was  only  a  mosquito  bite;  but  a 
glance  in  the  mirror  shewed  him  that  it  was 
worse  than  that.  The  swollen  glands  were  a  sign 
that  he,  too,  was  sickening  for  death.  His  fever 
of  the  last  few  hours  was  the  initial  fever.  Sooner 
or  later  he  would  drowse  off  to  death  as  Lionel  was 
drowsing.  He  might  have  only  two  more  months 
of    life.     Two    months.     Ottahe    had    had    two 

276 


MULTITUDE    AND    SOLITUDE 

startling,  frightened  seconds  before  death  choked 
her.  So  this  was  what  OttaHe  had  felt  in  those 
two  seconds,  fear,  a  blind  longing  of  love  for  half 
a  dozen,  a  thought  of  sky  and  freedom,  a  craving, 
an  agony,  and  then  the  fear  again.  He  rose  up. 
"  Even  if  it  be  all  useless,"  he  said  to  himself,"  I 
will  fire  off  all  my  cartridges  before  I  go."  He 
brought  out  the  Chamberland  filter  and  set  to 
w^ork. 


277 


XII 

Let  'em  be  happy,  and  rest  so  contented, 
They  pay  the  tribute  of  their  hearts  and  knees, 

Thiery  and  Theodoret. 

AFTER  passing  some  of  his  cultures  through 
the  filter,  he  injected  subcutaneously  the 
filtrate,  composed  of  dead  organisms  and  their 
toxins,  into  Lionel's  arms  and  into  his  own.  Taking 
one  of  the  black-faced  monkeys,  which  they  had 
brought  with  them  for  the  purpose,  he  shaved  and 
cleansed  a  part  of  its  neck,  and  injected  a  weak 
culture  into  the  space  prepared,  after  exposing 
the  culture  to  a  heat  slightly  below  the  heat  neces- 
sary to  kill  the  organisms.  Into  another  monkey 
he  injected  a  culture,  weakened  by  a  slight  addition 
of  carbolic.  He  had  no  great  hope  that  the 
measure  which  he  was  preparing  would  be  of  use  ; 
he  meant  to  try  them  all.  "  If  I  had  had  more 
time,"  he  thought  bitterly,  "  I  might  have  suc- 
ceeded." He  had  lost  so  much  time  in  getting  the 
culture  to  grow.  As  he  sealed  up  the  punctures 
with  collodion,  he  said  to  himself  that  he  had 
tried  Lionel's  cure,  and  that  now  he  was  free  to  try 
his  own  personal  theories.  He  would  kill  some 
animal  naturally  immune,  such  as  a  wildebeest  or 
a  koodoo,  and  obtain  serum  from  it  direct,  in  as 
cleanly  a  manner  as  he  could.  Lionel  had  said 
that  such  a  serum,  so  collected,  would  be  useless 

278 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

and  probably  septic  ;  but  who  cared  for  possible 
blood-poisoning  when  the  alternative  was  certain 
death  ?  Personally  he  would  prefer  a  death  by 
glanders  to  this  drowsy  dying.  If  he  could  disable 
an  antelope,  he  might  be  able  to  obtain  the  blood 
by  formal  antiseptic  methods  in  sterilized  pots. 
It  would  be  worth  trying.  He  had  taken  serum 
from  a  horse  in  England.  He  knew  the  process. 
Unfortunately  the  heart  of  Africa  is  not  like 
England,  nor  is  a  kicking,  horned,  wild  beast, 
tearing  the  earth  to  tatters  in  the  death-agony, 
like  a  staid  and  glossy  horse  neatly  arranged  to  be 
tapped.  "  Besides,"  he  thought,  "  the  beast  may 
be  suffering  from  all  manner  of  diseases,  or  it  may 
hold  germs  in  toleration  which  the  blood  of  man 
could  not  tolerate.  And  how  was  he  to  go  hunting 
with  an  equipment  of  sterile  pots  and  pipes  on  his 
back  ?  " 

He  liked  the  notion  too  well  to  be  frightened 
by  the  difficulties.  It  offered  the  possibility  of 
success  ;  it  gave  him  hope,  and  it  kept  his  mind 
busily  engaged.  Even  if  he  saw  no  wild  game, 
the  hunt  would  be  a  change  to  him.  He  was  a 
moderately  good  rifle-shot.  The  foil  was  the  only 
weapon  at  which  he  was  really  clever.  As  he  looked 
to  his  rifle,  he  felt  contempt  for  the  unreality  of 
his  life  in  London.  It  had  been  a  life  presupposing 
an  immense  external  artificiality.  How  little  a 
thing  upset  it !  How  helpless  he  was  when  it  had 
been  upset !  And  what  would  happen  to  England 
when  something  upset  London,  and  scattered  its 
constituent  poisons  broadcast  ?-  He  went  out  to 
the  hunt. 

279 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

The  wind  blew  steadily  from  the  direction  of  the 
forest.  There  was  no  chance  of  doing  anything  from 
that  side.  He  could  never  approach  game  down- 
wind. He  would  have  to  cross  the  river.  He  had 
never  tried  to  cross  the  river.  He  did  not  even 
know  if  it  were  possible.  The  thought  of  the 
crocodiles  and  the  mere  sight  of  the  swirling  flood 
had  kept  him  from  examining  the  river.  He  had 
not  been  near  it  since  he  had  sought  with  Lionel 
for  the  atoxyl  bottles.  What  it  looked  like  up- 
stream he  did  not  know.  He  went  upstream  to 
look  for  a  ford. 

At  a  little  distance  beyond  the  hill  he  came  upon 
something  which  made  him  pause.  The  earth 
there  had  been  torn  into  tracks  by  the  waters  of 
a  recent  thunderstorm.  The  cleanness  of  the 
cuttings  reminded  Roger  of  the  little  bog-bursts 
which  he  had  seen  in  Ireland  after  excessive  rains. 
In  one  of  the  tracks  the  rushing  water  had  swept 
bare  the  paving  of  an  ancient  road,  leaving  it  clear 
to  the  sky  for  about  twenty  yards.  The  road 
was  of  a  hard  even  surface,  like  the  flooring  of  the 
Zimbabwe.  To  the  touch  the  surface  was  that 
of  a  very  good  cycling  road  in  the  best  condition. 
The  ruts  of  carts  were  faintly  marked  upon  it  in 
dents.  The  road  seemed  to  have  been  made  of 
hewn  stones,  covered  over  and  bound  with  the 
powdered  pounded  granite  used  for  the  floors  of 
the  ruins.  It  was  five  of  Roger's  paces  in  breadth. 
The  edges  were  channelled  with  gutters.  Beyond 
the  gutters  were  borders  of  small  hewn  blocks 
neatly  arranged,  so  that  the  growths  near  the 
road  might  not  spread  over  it.     Judging  by  the 

280 


MUL7HUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

direction  of  the  uncovered  part,  the  road  entered 
the  Zimbabwe  through  a  gate  in  the  west  wall. 
In  the  other  direction,  away  from  the  Zimbabwe, 
it  led  slantingly  towards  the  river,  keeping  to  the 
top  of  a  ridge  (possibly  artificial),  so  as  to  avoid 
a  low-lying  tract  still  boggy  from  the  flood.  The 
river  made  a  sharp  bend  at  the  point  where  the 
road  impinged  upon  it.  Below  the  bend  the  lie 
of  the  bank  had  an  odd  look,  which  recalled  human 
endeavour  even  now,  after  the  lapse  of  so  many 
centuries.  Greatly  excited,  Roger  hurried  up  to 
look  at  the  place. 

It  had  been  the  port  of  the  Zimbabwe.  The 
bank  had  been  cut  away,  so  as  to  form  a  kind  of 
dock.  The  stumps  of  the  piles  were  still  in  the 
mud  in  places.  They  were  strong,  well-burnt 
wooden  piles,  such  as  are  used  for  jetties  every- 
where. By  the  feel  of  the  ground  on  the  jetty 
top  there  was  paved-work  not  far  below  it.  A  dig 
or  two  with  a  knife  blade  shewed  that  this  was 
the  case.  The  bank  was  paved  like  the  road. 
Looking  back  towards  the  ruin,  Roger  could 
mark  the  track  of  the  road  running  up  to  the  wall. 
Even  where  it  was  overgrown  he  could  tell  its 
whereabouts  by  the  comparative  lightness  of  the 
colour  of  the  grass  upon  it.  Beyond  the  ruin, 
running  almost  straight  to  the  south-east,  he 
noticed  a  similar  ribbon  of  light  grass,  marking 
another  road.  So  this  was  a  port,  this  Zimbabwe, 
a  port  at  the  terminus  of  a  road.  The  road  might 
lead  direct  to  Ophir,  whence  Solomon  obtained 
his  ivory  and  apes  and  peacocks.  Probably  there 
were   gold   mines   near   at   hand.     This   place,   so 

2S1 


MUL7HUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

quiet  now,  had  once  seen  a  gold-rush.  The  wharf 
there  had  been  thronged  by  j  ostlers  hurrying  to 
the  fields.  The  basin  of  ill-smelling  red  mud  had 
once  been  full  of  ships.  And  what  ships  ?  What 
people  ?  And  when  ?  "  A  brachycephalic  people 
of  clever  gold-workers  of  unknown  antiquity." 

Just  above  the  "  port  "  the  river  was  extremely 
narrow.  Sticking  out  of  the  water  in  the  narrow 
part  were  masses  of  masonry,  which  may  at  one 
time  have  served  as  the  piers  of  a  bridge.  They 
were  so  close  together  that  Roger  crossed  the  river 
by  them  without  difficulty.  On  the  other  side, 
as  he  had  expected,  the  mark  of  the  road  was 
ruled  in  a  dim  line  in  the  direction  of  the  forest. 
The  country  was  rougher  on  that  side.  The 
line  of  the  road  was  marked  less  plainly. 

Late  that  afternoon,  after  an  exhausting  stalk,  he 
got  two  shots  at  what  he  took  to  be  a  koodoo^  cow. 
He  went  forward  out  of  heart,  believing  that  both 
had  missed.  Bright  blood  on  the  grass  shewed  him 
that  he  had  hit  her.  A  little  further  on  he  found  the 
cow  down,  with  her  hindquarters  paralysed.  She 
struggled  to  get  up  to  face  him,  poor  brute ; 
but  she  was  too  hard  hit  ;  she  was  dying.  When 
she  had  struggled  a  little,  he  was  able  to  close 
with  her,  avoiding  the  great  horns.  He  was 
even  able  to  prepare  the  throat  in  some  measure 
for  the  operation.  Lastly,  avoiding  a  final  struggle, 
he  contrived  to  sterilize  his  hands  with  a  solution 
from  one  of  the  pots  slung  about  him.  The  sight 
of  his  hands  even  after  this  made  him  despair 
of  getting  an  uncontaminated  serum.     But  there 

1  It  was  probably  an  oryx. 

282 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

was  no  help  for  it.  He  took  out  the  knife,  made 
the  incision  in  the  throat,  and  inserted  the  steriHzed 
tube. 

When  he  turned  with  his  booty  to  go  home, 
he  noticed  a  Httle  fawn  which  stood  on  a  knoll 
above  him,  looking  at  him.  She  stood  quite 
still,  so  shaded  off  against  the  grasses  that  only  a 
lucky  eye  could  distinguish  her.  She  was  waiting, 
perhaps,  for  him  to  go  away,  so  that  she  might 
call  her  mother.  She  made  no  effort  to  run  from 
him.  Something  in  her  appearance  made  him 
think  that  she  was  ill.  The  carriage  of  her  head 
seemed  queer.  Her  coat  had  a  look  of  staring. 
He  wished,  then,  that  he  had  brought  his  glasses, 
so  that  he  might  examine  her  narrowly.  Moving 
round  a  little,  he  made  sure  that  her  coat  was  in 
poor  condition.  He  judged  that  she  might  have 
been  mauled  by  a  beast  of  prey. 

He  was  just  about  to  move  on  when  a  thought 
occurred  to  him.  What  if  the  young  of  the  wild 
game  should  not  be  immune  ?  What  if  the  bite 
of  the  infected  tsetse  should  set  up  a  mild  form 
of  nagana  in  them  from  which  they  recover  ? 
What  if  that  mild  sickness  should  confer  a  subse- 
quent immunity  on  the  inflicted  individual  ?  Surely 
the  result  would  be  obvious.  "  Vaccination  " 
with  the  blood  of  the  afflicted  calf  or  fawn  would 
set  up  a  mild  attack  of  the  disease  in  man,  and, 
perhaps,  give  him  subsequent  immunity  from  more 
virulent  infection.  The  ailments  of  wild  animals 
are  few.  What  if  this  fawn  should  be  suffer- 
ing from  a  mild  attack  of  the  disease  ?  He 
crept  a  little  nearer  to  her,  bending  low  down  to 

283 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

see  if  he  could  see  the  swelHngs  on  the  legs  and 
belly  which  mark  the  disease  in  quadrupeds.  He 
could  not  be  sure  of  them.  He  could  only  be 
sure  that  the  coat  was  staring,  and  that  the  nose 
and  eyes  were  watery.  He  whistled  gently  to  the 
little  creature,  hoping  that  she  would  be  too  young 
to  be  frightened  of  him.  She  stared  at  him  with 
wide  eyes,  trembling  slightly,  flexing  her  ears. 
He  whistled  to  her  again.  She  called  plaintively 
to  her  dam.  She  lowered  her  little  head,  ready 
to  attack,  pawing  the  ground  like  a  warrior.  Roger 
fired.  Afterwards  he  felt  as  though  he  had  killed 
a  girl. 

He  returned  to  "Portobe"  weighted  down  with 
jars,  which  he  emptied  carefully  into  sterilized  pans. 
The  result  made  "  Portobe  "  look  like  a  cannibal's 
dairy.  An  examination  of  the  blood  shewed  that 
both  animals  had  harboured  trypanosomes  in 
large  numbers.  When  the  blood  had  coagulated, 
he  decanted  the  serum  into  sterilized  bottles,  to 
which  he  added  minute  quantities  of  antiseptic. 
That  operation  gave  him  his  serum.  He  had  now 
to  test  it  for  bacteria  and  for  toxins.  He  added 
a  portion  from  each  bottle  to  various  culture- 
mediums  in  test-tubes.  He  added  these  test 
portions  to  all  his  media,  to  glycerine-agar  and 
glucose  as  well  as  to  those  better  suited  to  the 
growth  of  trypanosomes. 

He  set  them  aside  to  incubate. 

If  there  were  bacteria  in  the  sera  they  would 
increase  and  multiply  on  the  delightful  food  of  the 
media.  When  Roger  came  to  examine  the  media, 
he   came  expecting  to  find   them  swarming  with 

2S4 


MULTITUDE    AND    SOLITUDE 

bacteria  of  all  known  kinds.  He  was  naturally 
vain  of  the  success  of  his  hunting  ;  but  he  knew 
that  crude  surgery  out  in  the  open  is  not  so  whole- 
some a  method  of  obtaining  serum  as  might  be. 
Still,  a  close  examination  shewed  him  that  the 
cultures  had  not  developed  bacteria.  He  was 
pleased  at  this  ;  but  his  pleasure  was  dashed  by 
the  thought  that  it  was  rather  too  good  to  be  true. 
He  might  have  muddled  the  experiment  by  adding 
too  much  disinfectant  to  the  sera  while  bottling, 
by  using  cultures  which  had  in  some  way  lost  their 
attractiveness,  or  by  some  failure  in  the  prepara- 
tion of  the  slides.  After  going  through  his  ex- 
amination a  second  time,  he  decided  to  proceed. 
He  injected  large  doses  of  the  sera  into  two 
monkeys. 

Again  he  was  successful.  The  monkeys  shew'ed 
no  symptoms  of  poisoning.  The  sera,  whatever 
they  might  be,  were  evidently  harmless  to  the 
"  homologous  "  animal.  But  the  success  made 
Roger  even  more  doubtful  of  himself.  It  made 
him  actually  anxious,  lest  in  adding  disinfectant 
to  the  sera,  he  should  have  destroyed  the  protective 
forces  in  them,  as  well  as  the  micro-organisms 
at  which  he  had  aimed.  He  delayed  no  longer. 
He  injected  Lionel  with  a  large  dose  of  the  serum 
from  the  grown  animal ;  he  injected  himself 
with  the  serum  from  the  fawn.  Going  down  to 
the  village,  he  made  a  minute  examination  of 
those  who  were  the  least  ill.  Choosing  out  those 
who  shewed  no  outward  signs  of  the  congenital 
or  acquired  forms  of  blood-poisoning,  he  injected 
them  with  sera,  thinking  that  if  they  recovered  he 

285 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

would  use  their  sera  for  other  cases.  For  his  own 
part,  he  felt  better  already.  The  excitement  of 
hope  was  on  him.  He  had  risen  above  his 
body. 

For  the  next  few  days  his  life  was  a  fever  of  hope, 
broken  with  hours  of  despair.  One  of  his  patients 
died  suddenly  the  day  after  the  injection.  Lionel 
seemed  no  better.  Another  patient  seemed 
markedly  worse.  He  repeated  the  doses,  and 
passed  a  miserable  morning  watching  Lionel.  The 
evening  temperature  shewed  a  marked  decrease. 
An  examination  of  the  throat  glands  shewed  that 
the  trypanosomes  had  become  less  waggish.  They 
were  bunching  into  clumps,  "  agglutinizing,"  with 
slow,  irregular  movements.  That  seemed  to  him 
to  be  the  first  hopeful  sign.  On  studying  his 
books  he  could  not  be  sure  that  it  really  was  a 
good  sign.  One  book  seemed  to  say  that  agglutina- 
tion made  the  germs  more  virulent  ;  another  that 
it  paralysed  them.  He  could  see  for  himself  that 
they  had  ceased  to  multiply  by  splitting  longitudin- 
ally. And  from  that  he  argued  that  their  vitality 
had  been  weakened. 

The  next  day  Lionel  was  better  ;  but  the  native 
patients  were  all  worse.  They  were  alarmingly 
worse.  They  shewed  symptoms  which  were  not  in 
the  books.  They  swelled  shghtly,  as  though  the 
skin  had  been  inflated.  The  flesh  seemed  bladdery 
and  inelastic  at  the  same  time.  The  pigment  of  the 
skin  became  paler  ;  the  patients  became  an  ashy 
grey  colour.  The  blood  of  one  of  these  sufferers 
killed  a  guinea-pig  in  three  hours.  After  a  short 
period   of   evident   suffering   they   died,   one   after 

286 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

the  other,  apparently  of  the  exhaustion  following 
on  high  fever.  Roger,  in  a  dreadful  state  of  mental 
anguish,  stayed  with  them  till  they  were  dead, 
trying  remedy  after  remedy.  He  felt  that  he  had 
killed  them  all.  He  felt  that  their  blood  was  on  his 
hands.  He  felt  that  all  those  people  might  still 
have  been  alive  had  he  not  tried  his  wretched  nos- 
trum on  them.  There  was  no  doubt  that  the  sera 
had  caused  their  deaths.  Those  who  had  had  no 
serum  injections  were  no  worse  than  they  had  been. 
He  wondered  how  long  it  would  be  before  these 
symptoms  of  swelling  and  high  fever  appeared  in 
himself  and  Lionel.  He  went  back  to  "Portobe" 
expecting  to  find  Lionel  in  high  fever,  going  the 
road  to  Marumba. 

He  found  Lionel  weakly  walking  about  outside 
the  tent,  conscious,  but  not  yet  able  to  talk  intelligi- 
bly. He  had  not  expected  to  see  Lionel  walk  again. 
The  sight  made  him  forget  the  deaths  down  in  the 
village.  He  shouted  with  joy.  Closer  examination 
made  him  less  joyous.  The  skin  of  Lionel's  arm, 
very  dull  and  inelastic  to  the  touch,  was  slightly 
swollen  with  something  of  the  bladdery  look  which 
he  had  noticed  in  the  men  now  dead.  It  was  as 
though  the  body  had  been  encased  in  a  bladdery 
substance  slightly  inflated.  He  had  no  heart  to 
test  the  symptoms  upon  the  body  of  another 
animal.  There  was  death  enough  about  without 
that.  He  sat  down  over  the  microscope  and 
examined  his  sera  again  and  again.  He  could  find 
no  trace  of  any  living  micro-organisms.  The  sera 
seemed  to  be  sterile.  But  he  saw  now  that  it  had 
some  evil  effect  upon  those  infected  with  trypano- 

287 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

somes.  He  could  not  guess  the  exact  chemical 
nature  of  the  effect.  It  probably  affected  the 
constituents  of  the  blood  in  some  way.  The 
poison  in  the  sera  seemed  to  need  the  presence  of 
trypanosomes  to  complete  its  virulence. 

While  he  worked  over  the  microscope,  he  noticed 
that  his  own  flesh  was  developing  the  symptom. 
He  put  aside  his  work  when  he  saw  that.  He  con- 
cluded that  Lionel  and  he  were  marked  for  death 
within  twenty-four  hours.  Before  death  (as  he 
had  learned  in  the  village)  they  might  look  to  suffer 
much  pain.  After  some  hours  of  suffering  they 
would  become  unconscious  and  delirious.  After 
raving  for  a  while  they  would  die  there  in  the 
lonely  hut,  and  presently  the  ants  would  march 
in  in  regular  ranks  to  give  them  cleanly  burial. 
Their  bones  would  lie  on  the  cots  till  some  thunder- 
storm swept  them  under  mud.  Nobody  would 
ever  hear  of  them.  They  would  be  forgotten. 
People  in  England  would  wonder  what  had  become 
of  them  ;  they  would  wonder  less  as  time  went  on, 
and  at  last  they  would  cease  to  wonder.  News- 
papers would  allude  to  him  from  time  to  time  in 
paragraphs  two  lines  long.  Then,  as  his  contem- 
poraries grew  older,  that  would  stop,  too.  He 
would  be  forgotten,  utterly,  and  nobody  would 
know,  and  nobody  would  care. 

It  was  dreadful  to  him  to  think  that  nobody 
would  know.  He  could  count  on  an  hour  or  two 
of  freedom  from  pain.  Before  the  pain  shut  out 
the  world  from  him,  he  would  try  to  leave  some 
record  of  what  they  were.  He  sat  down  to  write  a 
death-letter.     It  was  useless,  of  course,  and  yet  it 

288 


MULTHUDE    AND    SOLITUDE 

might,  perhaps,  by  a  rare  chance,  some  day,  come 
to  the  knowledge  o£  those  whom  he  had  known  in 
England.  He  wondered  who  would  find  the  letter, 
if  it  were  ever  found.  Some  great  German  scientist 
about  to  banish  the  disease.  Some  drunken  English 
gold  prospector  with  a  cockney  accent.  Some 
missionary,  or  sportsman,  or  commercial  traveller. 
More  likely  it  would  be  some  roving  savage  with  a 
snuff-box  in  his  earlobe,  and  a  stone  of  copper 
wire  about  his  limbs.  He  wrote  out  a  short 
letter  : 

"  Lionel  Uppingham  Huntley  Heseltine,  Roger 
Monkhouse  Naldrett.  Dying  here  of  blood  poison- 
ing, following  the  use  of  koodoo  serum  for  try- 
panosomiasis. Should  this  come  to  the  hands  of  a 
European,  he  is  requested  to  communicate  with 
Dr.  Heseltine,  47A  Harley  Square,  Wimpole  Street, 
W.,  London,  England,  and  with  the  British  Consul 
at  Shirikanga,  C.F.S." 

He  added  a  few  words  more  ;  but  afterwards 
erased  them.  He  had  given  the  essentials.  There 
was  no  need  to  say  more.  He  translated  the 
brief  message  into  French,  Spanish,  and  German, 
and  signed  the  copies.  He  placed  the  document 
in  a  tin  soap  box  which  he  chained  to  an  iron 
rod  driven  into  the  floor  of  the  hut.  When  that 
was  done,  he  felt  that  he  had  taken  his  farewell 
to  life. 

He  thought  of  Ottalie,  without  hope  of  any  kind. 

He  was  daunted  by  the  thought  of  her.     He  could 

not  feel  that  his  soul  would  ever  reach  to  her  soul, 

across  all  those  wilds.    He  was  heavy  with  the  grow- 

u  289 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

ing  of  the  change  upon  him.  This  death  of  which 
he  had  thought  so  grandly  seemed  very  stupid  now 
that  he  was  coming  to  know  it.  He  remembered 
reproving  a  young  poet  for  the  remark  that  death 
could  not  possibly  be  so  stupid  as  life.  It  was 
monstrous  to  suppose  that  the  young  poet  could  be 
right  after  all.    And  yet 

He  went  out  hurriedly  and  released  all  the 
laboratory  animals  :  guinea-pigs,  monkeys,  and 
white  rats.  They  should  not  die  of  starvation, 
poor  beasts.  They  squeaked  and  gibbered  ex- 
citedly for  a  minute  or  two,  as  they  moved  off  to 
explore.  Probably  the  snakes  had  them  all  within 
the  week. 

After  some  hours  of  waiting  for  the  agony  to 
begin,  Roger  fell  asleep,  and  slept  till  the  next 
morning.  When  he  woke  he  sat  up  and  looked 
about  him,  being  not  quite  sure  at  first  that  he  was 
still  aUve.  His  pulse  was  normal,  his  tongue  was 
normal,  his  heart  was  normal.  He  felt  particularly 
well.  He  looked  at  his  flesh.  The  bladdery  look 
had  relapsed,  the  skin  was  normal  again.  Looking 
over  to  Lionel's  cot,  he  saw  that  Lionel  was  not  in 
the  hut.  Fearing  that  he  had  wandered  out  to  die 
in  a  fit  of  dehrium,  he  went  out  into  the  open  to 
look  for  him. 

It  was  a  bright,  windy,  tropic  morning,  with  a 
tonic  briskness  in  the  air  such  as  one  feels  sometimes 
in  England,  in  April  and  late  September.  One  of 
the  released  monkeys  was  fast  by  the  neck  again 
upon  his  perch.  He  was  munching  a  biscuit  with 
his  entire  vitahty.  Lionel  sat  upon  the  wall, 
sunning  himself  in  a  blanket.     His  attitude  sug- 

290 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

gested  both  great  physical  weakness,  and  entire 
self-confidence. 

"  I  say,  Roger,"  he  began.  "  It's  too  bad.  You 
are  a  juggins !  You've  let  all  our  menagerie  go. 
What  are  we  to  do  for  laboratory  animals  ?  I 
caught  McGinty  here.  Otherwise  we'd  have  been 
without  a  single  one.  Every  cage  in  the  place  is 
wide  open.    What  have  you  been  doing  ?  " 

"  My  God  !  "  said  Roger.     "  He's  cured  !  " 

"  Cured,  sir  ?  "  said  Lionel.  "  Why  shouldn't 
I  be  ?  There's  been  nothing  wrong  with  me  except 
fever.  But  I'm  not  joking.  I  want  to  know  about 
these  animals.  What  were  you  thinking  of  to  let 
them  out  ?  " 

"  Lionel,"  said  Roger,  "  for  the  last  five  weeks 
you've  been  dying  of  sleeping  sickness.  The 
atoxyl  was  lost.     I  believe  you  threw  it  away." 

"  There's  the  atoxyl,"  said  Lionel,  pointing. 
"  In  the  hole  in  the  wall  there.  I  put  it  there 
yesterday,  after  dosing  those  two." 

Sure  enough,  there  stood  the  bottle  in  the 
dimness  of  a  hole  in  the  wall.  Roger  must  have 
passed  it  some  fifty  times. 

"  I  looked  for  it  everywhere,"  said  Roger. 

Lionel's  eyes  narrowed  to  the  sharpness  of  medical 
scrutiny.     He  examined  Roger  for  some  time, 

"  Let  me  take  your  pulse,  Lionel,"  said  Roger, 
staring  back. 

"  My  pulse  is  all  right,"  said  Lionel.  "  Be  off 
and  look  for  guinea-pigs."  The  pulse  was  aU 
right ;   so  was  the  flesh  of  the  wrist. 

"  I  suppose  the  next  thing  you'll  want  me  to 
believe  is  that  I've  still  got  sleeping  sickness  ?    Well, 

291 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

look  at  my  tongue.  Perhaps  that  will  convince  you." 
Lionel  waited  for  an  answer  for  a  moment  with 
protruding  tongue.  The  tongue  was  steady.  Lionel 
returned  to  the  charge.  "  What  have  you  been 
playing  at  with  those  Weissner  serum  pans  ?  "  he 
asked.  "  Have  you  been  bleeding  the  monkeys  ? 
You  seem  to  have  been  having  a  field-day  gener- 
ally." 

"  I  tell  you,"  said  Roger,  "  that  you've  been  dying 
of  sleeping  sickness  for  five  weeks.  Look  at  your 
temperature  chart.  Look  at  my  diary.  After  the 
atoxyl  was  lost,  I  tried  every  mortal  thing  we  had. 
And  nothing  was  any  good.  You  were  drowsing 
away  to  death  for  days.     Don't  you  remember  ?  " 

"  I  remember  having  fever,  and  you  or  somebody 
messing  around  with  a  needle.  But,  five  weeks, 
man  !     Five  weeks.     Come  !  " 

"  I  tell  you,  you  have.  You've  been  unconscious 
half  the  time." 

"  Well.  If  I've  had  sleeping  sickness,  how  comes 
it  that  I'm  here,  talking  to  you  ?  You  say  yourself 
the  atoxyl  was  lost." 

"  Lionel,"  said  Roger,  "  I  injected  you  with  a 
dead  culture.  After  that,  I  shot  a  couple  of 
koodoos  (if  they  were  koodoos),  a  cow  and  a  fawn. 
The  fawn  had  nagana  or  something.  I  took  sera 
from  them,  and  injected  the  sera  into  both  of  us. 
Great  big  doses  in  both  cases.  I  injected  the  sera 
into  seven  poor  devils  in  the  village,  and  they  all 
swelled  up  and  died.  It  was  awful,  Lionel.  What 
makes  people  swell  up  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Lionel.  "  I  suppose  it 
might  be  anthrax.     Was  there  fever  ?  " 

292 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

"  Intense  pain,  very  high  fever,  and  death 
apparently  from  exhaustion.  And  you  and  I 
swelled  up  a  little  ;  and  I  made  sure  yesterday 
that  we  were  both  going  to  die  too.  I  wrote 
letters,  and  stuck  them  up  on  a  bar  inside 
there." 

"  Oh,  so  that  was  what  the  rod  was  for  ?  I 
thought  it  was  something  funny.  And  now  we  are 
both  cured  ?  " 

"  Yes.  My  God,  Lionel,  I'm  thankful  to  hear 
your  voice  again.  You  don't  know  what  it's 
been." 

They  shook  hands. 

"  You're  a  public  benefactor,"  said  Lionel.  He 
looked  hard  at  Roger.  "  I  give  you  best,"  he  added. 
"  I  thought  you  were  a  griff.  But  you've  found  a 
cure,  it  seems.  Eh  ?  Look  at  him.  It's  the  first 
time  he's  realized  it !  " 

"  But,"  Roger  stammered,  "  I've  killed  seven 
with  it ;  that's  not  what  I  call  a  cure." 

"  Did  you  inject  the  seven  with  the  dead  culture 
first  ?  "  Lionel  asked. 

No.  Only  myself  and  you." 
There  you  are,"  said  Lionel.  "  You  griffs 
make  the  discoveries,  and  haven't  got  the  gumption 
to  see  them.  My  good  Lord  !  It's  as  plain  as 
measles.  You  inject  the  dead  culture.  That's  the 
first  step.  That  makes  the  trypanosomes  agglu- 
tinize.  Very  well,  then.  You  inject  your  serum 
when  they  are  agglutinized  ;  not  before.  When 
they  are  agglutinized,  the  serum  destroys  them, 
after  raising  queer  symptoms.  When  they  are  not 
agglutinized  the  serum  destroys  you  by  the  excess 

U    2  293 


MULTITUDE   AND   SOLITUDE 

of  what  causes  the  queer  symptoms.  I  don't 
understand  those  symptoms.  They  are  so  entirely 
unexpected.     Did  you  examine  the  blood  ?  " 

"  One  cubic  centimetre  of  the  venous  blood 
killed  a  guinea-pig  in  three  hours." 

"  Yes,  no  doubt.  But  did  you  look  at  the  blood 
microscopically  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Roger,  ashamed.  "  I  looked  at  my 
sera  for  streptococci." 

"You  juggins!"  said  Lionel.  "Yet  you  come 
out  and  land  on  a  cure.  Well,  well !  You're  a 
lucky  dog.  Let's  go  in  and  look  at  our 
glands."  Roger  noticed  that  he  walked  with  the 
totter  of  one  newly  risen  from  a  violent  attack  of 
fever. 

Four  months  later,  the  two  men  reached  Shiri- 
kanga  in  a  canoe  of  their  own  making.  They  were 
paddled  by  four  survivors  from  the  village.  All 
the  rest  were  dead,  either  of  sleeping  sickness  or  of 
the  serum.  Lionel  had  not  discovered  what  it  was 
in  the  serum  which  caused  the  fatal  symptoms. 
It  contained  some  quality  which  caused  the  strep- 
tococci, or  pus-forming  microbes,  to  increase ;  but, 
as  far  as  he  could  discover,  this  quality  was  exerted 
only  when  the  patient's  blood  contained  virulent 
trypanosomes,  or  some  other  active  toxin-produc- 
ing micro-organisms  in  the  unagglutinized  condi- 
tion. They  cured  four  of  the  villagers.  They 
might  have  saved  more  had  they  been  able  to 
begin  the  treatment  earlier  in  the  disease.  They 
were  not  dissatisfied  with  their  success.  They 
"  had  powler't  up  and  down  a  bit,"  like  the  Jovial 
Huntsmen.    They  had   come   to   some   knowledge 

294 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

of    each   other,    and   to   some   extension    of    their 
faculties. 

Scientifically,  they  had  done  less  than  they  had 
hoped  ;  but  more  than  they  had  expected  to  do. 
They  had  been  the  first  to  cure  cases  with  animal 
serum.  They  had  been  the  first  to  study  in  any 
way  the  effect  of  nagana  upon  the  young  of  wild 
game,  and  to  prepare  (as  yet  untested)  vaccine 
from  young  antelopes,  quaggas,  and  elands.  They 
had  discovered  a  wash  of  Paris  green  and  lime 
which  destroyed  the  tsetse  pupae.  They  had 
cleared  some  three  miles  of  fly  belt.  They  had 
studied  the  tsetse.  They  had  surveyed  the  whole 
and  excavated  a  part  of  the  Zimbabwe.  Lastly, 
they  had  settled  the  foundations  of  friendship 
between  them. 

That  was,  perhaps,  the  best  result  of  the  expedi- 
tion. They  had  settled  a  friendship  likely  to  last 
through  life.  They  were  confident  that  they  would 
do  great  things  together.  Shirikanga  hove  in  sight 
at  the  river  mouth.  Two  country  barques  lay  at 
anchor  there,  with  grimy  awnings  over  their  poops. 
Ashore,  in  the  blaze  of  the  day,  were  a  few  white- 
washed huts,  from  one  of  which  a  Union  Jack 
floated.  In  the  compound  of  another  hut  a  negro 
was  slowly  hoisting  the  ball  of  a  flag.  He  brought 
it  to  the  truck  and  broke  it  out,  so  that  it  fluttered 
free.  It  was  a  red  burgee,  the  letter  B  of  the 
code. 

"  Mail  day,"  said  Lionel.  "  We  shall  be  out  of 
here  to-night.  We  shall  be  at  Banana  by  Wednesday. 
That  means  Antwerp  by  Wednesday  three  weeks. 
London's  not  far  away." 

295 


MULTHUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

"  Good,"  said  Roger.  He  was  not  thinking  of 
London.  He  was  thinking  of  a  lonely  Irish  hill, 
where  there  were  many  yellow-hammers.  The 
trees  there  stood  up  like  ghosts.  Round  an  old, 
grey,  two-storied  house  the  bees  murmured.  He 
was  thinking  that  perhaps  one  or  two  roses  might 
be  in  blossom  about  the  house  even  a  month  later, 
when  he  would  stand  there. 

He  thought  of  his  life  in  Africa,  and  of  its  bearing 
upon  himself.  It  had  done  him  good.  He  was 
worth  more  to  the  world  than  he  had  been  a  year 
before.  He  thought  little  of  his  success.  It  had 
been  fortunate.  It  had  saved  Lionel.  When  he 
thought  of  his  earlier  life  he  sighed.  He  knew  that 
he  would  have  achieved  more  than  that  sorry 
triumph  had  he  been  trained.  His  life  had  been 
improvised,  never  organized.  Great  things  are 
done  only  when  the  improvising  mind  has  a  great 
organization  behind  it. 

He  thought  it  all  over  again  when  he  lay  in  his 
bunk  in  a  cabin  of  the  Kabinda,  on  his  way  up- 
coast.  He  was  at  peace  with  the  world.  Clean 
sheets,  the  European  faces,  and  the  civilized  meals 
in  the  saloon,  had  wiped  out  the  memory  of  the 
past.  Africa  was  already  very  dim  to  him.  The 
Zimbabwe  rose  up  in  his  mind  like  something  seen 
in  a  dream,  a  dim,  but  rather  grand  shape.  The 
.  miseries  of  the  camp  were  dim.  He  had  been  sad 
I  \  that  morning  in  bidding  farewell  to  the  four  whose 
lives  he  had  saved.  Jellybags,  Toro,  Buckshot,  and 
Pocahontas.  He  repeated  their  names  and  con- 
sidered their  engaging  traits.  Jellybags  was  the 
best  of  them.     He  had  hked  Jellybags.     Jellybags 

296 


MULTHUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

had  wanted  to  come  with  them.  He  would  never 
see  Jellybags  again.  He  didn't  care  particularly. 
The  sheets  of  the  bunk  were  very  comfortable.  At 
the  end  of  a  great  adventure  things  are  seen  in  false 
proportions.  Only  the  thought  that  those  men 
had  shared  his  life  for  a  while  gave  him  the 
suggestion  of  a  qualm  before  he  put  them  from 
his  mind. 

He  thought  of  Ottalie.  He  saw  her  more  clearly 
than  of  old.  In  the  old  days  he  had  seen  her 
through  the  pink  mists  of  amatory  sentiment.  The 
sentiment  was  gone.  Action  had  knocked  it  out  of 
him.  He  saw  her  now  as  she  was.  She  was  more 
wonderful  in  the  clearer  light  ;  more  wonderful 
than  ever ;  a  fine,  trained,  scrupulous  mind, 
drilled  to  a  beautiful  unerring  choice  in  life.  She 
was  near  and  real  to  him,  so  real  that  he  seemed  to 
be  within  her  mind,  following  its  fearlessness.  He 
felt  that  he  understood  her  now.  With  a  rush  of 
emotion  he  felt  that  he  could  bring  what  she  had 
been  into  the  life  of  his  time. 

In  the  steamer  at  Banana  was  a  German  scientist 
bound  to  Sierra  Leone.  He  spoke  English.  He 
asked  the  two  friends  about  their  achievement. 
Lionel  told  him  that  they  had  discovered  a  serum 
for  the  cure  of  trypanosomiasis.  The  German 
smiled.  "  Ah,"  he  said.  "  There  is  already  sera. 
The  Japanese  bacteriologist,  what  was  his  name  ? 
Shima  ?  Oshima  ?  Shiga  ?  No,  Hiroshiga.  He 
have  found  a  good  serum,  which  makes  der  peoples 
die  sometimes.  Then  there  is  Miihlbauer  who  have 
improved  the  serum  of  Hiroshiga.  He  have  added 
a  little  trypanroth  or  a  little  mercury  or  somedings. 

297 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

Now  he  have  cured  every  mans.  I  wonder  you  have 
not  seen  of  Hiroshiga  in  der  newspapers.  He  have 
make  his  experiments  in  der  spring  ;  and  Miihl- 
bauer  he  is  now  at  Nairobi  curing  everymans.  He 
have  vaccination  camps." 

"  Well,"  said  Lionel.  "  We've  been  beaten  on 
the  post.  You  hear,  Roger  ?  All  that  we  have 
done  has  been  done." 

"  You  wait,"  said  Roger.  "  We're  only  begin- 
ning." 

Afterwards  he  was  sad  that  it  was  ending  thus. 
He  would  have  been  proud  to  have  given  a  cure  to 
the  world.  It  would  have  been  an  offering  to 
Ottalie.  She  would  have  loved  to  share  that  honour. 
He  had  plucked  that  poor  little  flower  for  her  at 
the  risk  of  his  life.  It  was  hard  to  find  that  it  was 
only  a  paper  flower  after  all.  He  thought  of 
Ottalie  as  standing  at  the  window  of  the  upper 
passage  looking  out  for  him.  She  seemed  to  him 
to  be  something  of  all  cleanness  and  fearlessness, 
waiting  for  him  to  lead  her  into  the  world,  so  that 
men  might  serve  her. 

In  Ottalie's  old  home,  a  month  later,  he  saw  his 
way.  Leslie,  Lionel,  and  himself  sat  together  in 
the  twilight,  talking  of  her.  Roger  was  deeply 
moved  by  a  sense  of  her  presence  there.  He  leaned 
forward  to  them  and  spoke  earnestly,  asking  them 
to  join  hands  in  building  some  memorial  to  her. 
*'  She  was  like  a  new  spirit  coming  to  the  world," 
he  said.  "  Like  the  new  spirit.  We  ought  to 
bring  that  new  spirit  into  the  world.  Let  us  form 
a  brotherhood  of  three  to  do  that.  We  are  three 
untrained  enthusiasts.    Let  us  prepare  an  organiza- 

298 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

tion  for  the  enthusiasts  who  come  after  us.  Let  us 
build  up  an  interest  in  the  new  hygiene  and  the 
new  science  ;  in  all  that  is  cleanly  and  fearless.  We 
could  start  a  little  school  and  laboratory  together, 
and  run  a  monthly  paper  preaching  our  tenets. 
All  the  ills  of  modern  life  come  from  dirt  and  senti- 
ment, and  the  cowardice  which  both  imply.  If  we 
stand  together  and  attack  those  ills,  year  in  and 
year  out,  we  shall  get  rid  of  them.  Little  by 
little,  if  one  stands  at  a  street  corner,  the  crowd 
gathers." 

"  Yes,"  said  Leslie,  "  And  you  think  dirt  and 
sentiment  the  bad  things  ?  Well,  perhaps  you're 
right.  They're  both  due  to  a  want  of  order  in  the 
mind.     W^hat  do  you  think,  Lionel  ?  " 

"  I  ?  "  said  Lionel.  "  I  say,  certainly.  We  three 
are  living  in  a  most  wonderful  time.  The  world  is 
just  coming  to  see  that  science  is  not  a  substitute 
for  religion,  but  religion  of  a  very  deep  and  austere 
kind.    We  are  seeing  only  the  beginning  of  it." 

They  settled  a  plan  of  action  together. 

Roger  went  out  into  the  garden,  and  down  the 
hill,  thinking  of  the  crusade  against  the  weariness 
and  filth  of  cities.  There  was  an  after-glow  upon 
the  hills.  It  fell  with  a  ruddy  glare  on  the  window 
of  his  dream.  It  thrilled  him.  The  light  would 
fall  there  long  after  the  house  had  fallen.  It  had 
lighted  Ottalie.  It  had  burned  upon  the  pane 
when  Ottalie's  mother  stood  there.  Nature  was 
enduring ;  Nature  the  imperfect ;  Nature  the 
enemy,  which  blighted  the  rose  and  spread  the 
weed.  Thinking  of  the  woman  who  had  waited 
for  him   there   in  his   vision,   he   prayed   that  her 

299 


MULTITUDE   AND    SOLITUDE 

influence  in  him  might  help  to  bring  to  earth  that 
promised  H£e,  in  which  man,  curbing  Nature  to  his 
use,  would  assert  a  new  law  and  rule  like  a  king, 
where  now,  even  in  his  strength,  he  walks  sentenced, 
a  prey  to  all  things  baser. 


THE    END 


WILLIAM    BRENUON   AND  iON,    LTO 
PRINTERS,    PLYMOUTH 


0 


This  Ijook  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 

^   APR    5  t97g 


FEB  1  5  193^ 


4t 


NOV  1  ^ 

^P^  1  7  1939 
MAY  2  2  1946 


iL-o  '^-^ 


^jKn  ^ 


oA3Tt 


fH?TJ  ttJ-tWi 

OCT  sl^i^^^W 


Form  L'J-10)n-2,'31 


AA    000  370  914 


3   1158  00242  621 


C 


iii'i        .■'■HI 


lilillllli 


